


It's Funny Because Eren Can't Read

by BlakeBroflovski



Series: Sentiment [3]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon Universe, Hand Jobs, Heavy Petting, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, illiterate eren, not flagging this for age u know what ur getting into, part of a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-28
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-27 20:22:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 109,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/983204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlakeBroflovski/pseuds/BlakeBroflovski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Survey Corps, reading and comprehending paperwork is equally as crucial as it is beyond the realm of Eren's capabilities.  However, with his CO's confidential tutelage, Eren is sure he'll be able to catch up with his comrades in no time... if he can shake this unexpected suspicion that his fondness for humanity's strongest soldier isn't simple hero worship.</p><p>Hint: He cannot.</p><p>If you like this fic, read <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4089538">Run To You</a>, the sequel!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is meant to be canon compliant, but it could well be jossed at any moment, and y'know what's funnier than Eren's illiteracy is the fact that I kinda don't care; Sentiment has sorta become its own demon by this point and I'd be fairly content with it accidentally turning into an AU. That's what I get for insisting on plowing ahead while the story proper is still in progress, I guess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you read this fic, you may want to first check out "[Cups (We're Not Telling That Story)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1607234)" and "[Mirror](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1612709)", in that order — two prequel one-shots for this series that set up the events to follow.
> 
> On an unrelated note: Even though this fic and the comic are nothing alike, I feel it's important to mention that the idea for Eren's illiteracy was sparked by tumblr user cottna's comic, which can be found [here](http://cottna.tumblr.com/post/61924751304/).

It had been so much easier when you didn't have to hide it.

Now you've run your big mouth about what a proficient hunter you're going to be and gotten yourself surrounded by all the world-renowned virtuosos of titan killing who expect you to live up to the hype.

If titan killing was all they expected of you, this wouldn't be a problem.

But there's a proverb from the old world that no matter how much education you've received, you'll only use ten percent of it on the job, and the rest has to be learned through experience once you're already there.

As you stare at the papers in your hands, you have to agree that your three grueling years of training to kill titans did nothing to prepare you for this moment.

You sit in a lecture room in an upper level of the castle headquarters, trying not to let the sweat from your palms stick to the manila file and its contents of formation blueprints and strategic flowcharts and guidelines on the corresponding purposes for the respective flare gun rounds, and you might as well be attempting to assemble a thumbnail-sized scale model of maneuver gear with a spoon.

You start to run a hand through your hair in frustration but catch yourself in time to pretend you're just straightening your fringe, and you glance up through it toward the chalkboard, as if it'll help you.  Commander Smith's gestures and elaborations help you understand the diagrams, but this does little for you, because pictures speak for themselves.  It's the lines upon lines that fill entire pages with repeated characters you cannot divine, and have never been able to, that leave you stunned and disoriented.

The commander asks if anyone needs him to reiterate any points of confusion before he moves on, and you almost raise your hand, but fear and shame keep you still.  You have many questions, but you can be damn well sure their answers lie within the text and asking would make you look not only stupid, but belligerent.

Receiving no requests for further clarification, Smith erases the board in a few strokes of a broad arm, and as the letters disappear, you feel as if he's erased the hope of you ever understanding this crap.

He begins to write out something more as he speaks of formation clusters, and the hand in your fringe migrates to your forehead, grinding the heel of your hand between your eyebrows.

You'd never been taught because it was never necessary.  You always had jobs like laundry and firewood collection and sweeping, never having cause to work with anything labelled.  Your father had always mused about teaching you when it came due time, but any chance for that had disappeared five years ago along with him, your home, and everything outside Wall Rose.  The interim had afforded no time to learn either, though in retrospect, you're certain there had been moments you let slip away where you could have gotten Armin to teach you something.  He had to know how; he carried that book around with him everywhere, though the only thing useful to you were the pictures, which far outweighed the number of words anyway.  You think he knows about you, and you'd bet Mikasa does too, though since there was never any real cause for you to be tested by it, it's never been concretely brought up around either of them, so you can't be certain.  Either way, you know they wouldn't judge you for it — in a way, you didn't know it was a thing that someone could judge you _for_ — and you never felt as defensive of your ignorance as you do now.

Beside you, Captain Levi kicks his boots onto your shared desk and tilts his chair back on two legs.  He ignores the commander's lecture and peruses the paperwork with the same glazed, disinterested stare as always, but his slate grey eyes slide easily over each line and flick down to the next with a rapidity that leaves you more stunned than you already were, feeling like a gas canister discharged and hit you in the chest.

You can feel yourself perspiring more than usual due to nerves, but you pull on your jacket anyway, to hide the stains you're sure are growing under your sleeves.  Your gaze shifts to Auruo and Petra sharing the desk beyond Levi, and you contain a groan of irritation bordering on panic to see them not only following the file easily, but taking their own notes.  Auruo doesn't bother trying to conceal a loud yawn.  They're only a few years older than you, and they can do this crap, so what's your excuse?

Your eyes fall back to your own collection of papers, kept stacked as orderly as possible as if the neatness will help you learn through some kind of intellectual osmosis, and a rock drops in your gut.

There is absolutely no way you're going to catch up.

Not without some serious help, anyway.  A crash course in literacy.  It's going to mean all-night cram sessions where you're likely to completely neglect to memorize the material you're supposed to be learning in favor of figuring out the sounds of the letters themselves, but you have no hope of accomplishing even that much if you don't have a tutor to show you the basics.  After all, if sounds were conveyed by letters through a simple thing like their shape and you could teach yourself just by looking, this wouldn't be an issue in the first place.

On the heels of that acknowledgement, a more pressing issue comes to mind: in order to get a tutor, you're going to have to confess to someone in this room.

Your gaze travels to the back of Major Hanji's head two rows up, directly in front of the blackboard and all the new lines Commander Smith has written on it.

You've had precious little time to adjust to your new surroundings and teammates, considering the whole of yesterday was spent traveling and cleaning, but your first night was spent in the company of Major Hanji. Though the conversation had grown dull after a while, you'd be pretty sure you're more comfortable with her than anyone else here.  Captain Levi, as the one awarded the charge of your custody, insists upon being the one to seal you in and release you from your cell, but you haven't even had a chance to see it yet; Hanji's exuberant discourse of any- and everything to do with titans had kept you up through dawn, and upon examining the remains of the slain titan specimens, you had been escorted back here to accomplish your assigned task of cleaning the courtyard until lunch.  You suppose you should admire that the captain isn't one to back down from his word even if other events conspire to interfere, but the ache in your knees left you in a sour mood before the lecture on the basics of survey formations had even been announced, and you can't deny you're resenting Levi just a little right now.  You're exhausted and sleepless, and on top of it, you're frustrated and sinking deeper by the second into self-loathing, and you probably wouldn't be so high-strung right now if he'd just rescued you last night from the harangue he knew must have been imminent rather than marching out and leaving you without a way to get locked into your cell even if you'd had the opportunity.  You don't even know where it is, let alone where you could've found him to ask.

Still, you've already grown a soft spot for Hanji, and of all the elites you've got the choice of asking, she's the one with whom you'd be least uncomfortable.  But almost immediately, you realize that with all the foiled research damage control the major has to deal with at this point, it's dubious she'd be willing to take on the additional task of teaching some bratty loudmouth his A-B-Cs.

You don't even dream of asking Smith himself.  You shouldn't even need to explain why not.

You could ask Petra, though.  Her pencil dances over the paper like a leaf in the wind, and as you recall your aborted attempt at conversation during cleaning, you think you'd be fine with asking a gentle and honest person like her for a favor so embarrassing.  Then again, though, she was pretty quick to tell you all the private, personal details of Levi's past the moment he was out of earshot, and your face heats around the edges at the thought of her whispering your illiteracy to someone else over the handle of a broom. 

No, definitely not Petra, then. 

You could ask Erd or Gunther — they seem a lot less harsh than Auruo, who would probably spend more than half the time just taunting you for your ignorance — but you've barely spoken two words to them so far, and you're pretty sure they're as skittish about you as you are of them.  Bold as you might be, this particular weak spot has your tongue tied.  You can't help but remember the mockery of the recruits in the mess hall the morning after your failed attempt at maneuver gear, and you really cannot convey to yourself how very, very little you want to hear that type of reaction again.  Since you can't be sure of theirs, they are both out of the question, as is pretty much everybody with whom you haven't become sufficiently acquainted. 

Which leaves no one but Hanji and Petra, who are too busy and too nosy, respectively.

You almost don't feel it through your jacket when fingernails tap your upper arm.

You look toward the source, but Levi is already leaning toward you, the same fingertips curling around his pale mouth.  His lips move in a whisper, but his eyes don't leave the papers he holds over his crossed knees.

"You following any of this shit?"

The rock that has dropped in your gut jumps up to your throat, and for a second, you think he's cottoned on.  You swallow hard and wet your lips, and you must be taking too long to answer, because his eyes flick over to you.

You're aware that you have a painfully honest face, and you decide begrudgingly that truth is the best policy.

"Not a word."

You try to play it off like a joke, and Levi seems to agree, because he shifts a hair closer and murmurs, "Gotta admire his track record, but god damn, Erwin can talk some pretty convoluted shit."  You allow yourself a near inaudible chuckle through your nose.  "I don't get why he feels the need to go on and on about specifics that have nothing to do with me.  File that under Shit I Don't Need To Know and let me do what I do when the time comes."

For his dogmatic adherence to the rule of keeping you under lock and key, your perception of Captain Levi as a law-breaking hooligan had shifted to something more of a strictly law-upholding guard dog, but to hear him badmouth his superior, even in a humorous light, has your view of him flying back across the board all over again.  To boot, he didn't actually see to it that you were locked up last night, either.  You really aren't sure what to make of this guy anymore, so you try to focus on making sense of someone else.

"Has he always been like this, sir?"

The captain nods, his eyes widening a touch.  "Since I can remember.  Coming up with his wild theories and sticking to them come hell and high water.  Fact that he's always right notwithstanding.  Gotta plot out every single detail beforehand, what hairs you're allowed to lose when and how much fart you're allowed to cut at strategic intervals."  With great difficulty, you manage to contain a snort of laughter.  He notices, and he glances you up and down with one slender eyebrow raised, muttering, "You think I'm kidding."

You opt for a change of topic because you really aren't sure you want to know that much.  "Why are we even bothering to learn all this on day one?  Don't we have plenty of time to go over it— and aren't we going to have to hear it all again once the recruits from the 104th get here?"

He huffs.  "Fuck if I'm sitting through a lecture with a couple dozen more of you babies."  You have to concede his point there; you'd be pretty loath to do it yourself, in his position.  "But we do have a month, yeah.  And I already know most of this shit anyway, why am I even here?"

Mostly as a joke, you whisper, "Maybe you could just give me the crash course later on what I need to know, and we can both zone out here until we're dismissed."

Behind his curled fingers, a smirk tugs at his mouth.  "Yeah, sure." 

The unexpected sincerity of his response trips you a little, and you don't know what to say in reply, so you slouch down a bit in your chair and study the diagrams as closely as you can, since they're the only things on these papers you're actually capable of understanding.

His fingers tap your arm again, and you're a bit more prepared for it this time, shifting to lean into the touch.  His fingertips linger on your sleeve, and in the instant before you mentally slap yourself, you wish you hadn't put your jacket on so that you could feel it a little better.  You have no idea, between the tribunal ass-kicking and now, when this feeling could possibly have started, but you know that when he'd gotten up and left you to Hanji without a word last night, you'd felt a tightness in your chest that you were perfectly aware wasn't appropriate.  You're determined to squelch the feeling as swiftly as possible, but when his knuckles graze over your arm and the scent of his tea lightly permeates the air between you, your skin vibrates to the tune of his voice.

"You wonder if everyone else is just as lost, and they're just faking it to look smart?"

You let out a hiss of giggles and shuffle closer, so your shoulder brushes his.  "Probably.  Bet Auruo's having the most trouble, with that tight scarf thing cutting off blood flow to the brain." 

Levi gives you an eloquent sidelong look, and when he murmurs "does it now," you realize your misstep.  It's a bit late to backtrack, though, so you allow yourself a glance at his throat and snicker "maybe."  His hand comes off your arm to make a flicking motion toward your nose, and you twist your head just in time to deflect the blow off your cheek.  He mutters "little shit" and turns back to his copy of the file, though he doesn't move away from you.  You're not sure if you want him to move or not; he's actually leaning on your shoulder with some substance now, and while you're nervous and your body is thrumming with tension where his weight presses against you, the fact remains that you know you shouldn't be reacting this way.  You tell yourself firmly that it's just hero worship and that you're only grinning so widely because you're still a bit starstruck.  That's all.  You will get over it the moment it finally sinks in that he broke your face, whether or not he did it to save your life from the MP.

Part of you points out that you might already be over it, though.  You healed, and you understand why it had to be done.  You're pretty sure, from the tone and phrasing of Commander Smith's apology, that he had put Levi up to the part anyway, so it's not like he wanted to; he's just scary enough to get the job done. 

His elbow nudges you out of your thoughts.  "You even know what page we're on?"  You shake your head just perceptibly enough for him, and he sighs, scratching the back of his neck.  You attempt to match the words on the board with a phrase from the papers, but they're too numerous, and they all look the same to you.  After a minute of fruitless comparison, you give up.  He nudges your arm again, and by this time, you look to meet his gaze on reflex.  "That's like the fortieth time you've sighed heavily enough I'd think it was a death rattle."

Your treacherous face betrays your embarrassment by flushing around the ears.  You hadn't been doing it intentionally, hadn't even noticed you'd been doing it, but you suppose the amount of frustrated thoughts bouncing around in your head could have warranted an unconscious sigh or two, or… forty, apparently.  You straighten your shirt laces and return your stare to your paperwork.

His legs bend on the desk and his shoulder parts from yours, and his tilted-back chair goes upright onto all four legs once more, putting his face in your periphery when he leans forward.  He still has that eyebrow cocked.

He whispers "You wanna talk about it?" and you can't tell if his tone is sarcastic or earnest.

You rub your tired eyes and debate trying to lie.  You could possibly wave it off as "just tired" or "just lost and confused", and you bet he's an introverted enough person to let it slide, even if he doesn't believe it. 

But something pushes you forward, forces you to murmur, "If I tell you something, can you promise me that you'll, like… keep the laughter to a dull roar and limit your amusement coma to a maximum of five minutes?"

He sits back and stares at you, and though his expression is impassive as ever, the slight narrowing of his heavy-lidded eyes evinces his intrigue.  "I'll do my best."

You aren't sure how you've avoided getting caught talking in class so far, but you think it might have to do with Smith trusting Levi to pick up on everything later; you get the impression that a lot of their communication is nonverbal, anyway.  Your placement at the back of the room can't be hurting you, either.

You mumble, "I can't read."

For an instant that stretches into forever, your body seizes with terror in anticipation for his reaction.  You know you've just said something that makes you sound mentally challenged, and that it's equally likely he'll burst out laughing at you as it is that he'll kick you out right now.

Then he shatters all of your expectations and gives a short, sympathetic nod.  "Can't fault you there.  I couldn't either until I was like seventeen."

He directs his attention toward the blackboard that Smith is erasing again, and you stare unseeingly at the side of his head, unsure whether to laugh from incredulity or cry with relief.

Maybe you should just stop trying to make assumptions about Levi.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was hoping to get to bed a bit earlier tonight than yesterday. I guess I succeeded? whoops

When Commander Smith concludes the lecture at last and everyone rises to stretch out the kinks in their backs, your knees haves stiffened up nicely, and you have a hard time convincing them to move.  You aren't sure why it's taking so long to heal some simple joint irritation when your broken tooth grew back in a matter of minutes, but then again, you aren't really sure why you can turn into a titan in the first place, so you figure it's probably in your best interest to not take any wild guesses.

The heels of Levi's boots smack onto the wood floor loudly enough to make you jump, and as you stuff your papers back into the manila file, he taps your shoulder.  His own paperwork has magically organized itself tidily in the folder he has pinched under his armpit, and he stares at you and jerks his head toward the door before he stalks off.  You scramble to follow, your hip colliding with a desk as you weave through them, and he doesn't bother making sure you can catch up.

Luckily, you can, and you fall into step behind him on the stairs down to the ground level.  You might've mustered the courage to walk beside him, but Petra is occupying that space, hugging her file to her chest like your mother used to do with your laundry while she was folding it.  She murmurs something to Levi, and you can't make out exactly what she says but you discern enough to figure out she's picking on him for talking to you during the lecture.  He replies with a grunt, and she giggles, asking something about making new friends.

He glances over each shoulder before he locates you behind him, and you give a tiny smile for a fraction of a second before your mouth twitches too much and you have to purse your lips and look away.  If you blush, you will absolutely slap yourself across the face, so you chalk it up to being overheated in your jacket and insist that no one else can see it.

God, you can't even smile at the guy.  You really need to get this idolization nonsense under control.

You can't be sure through the cacophony of boot steps, but you think he might have chuckled.

Auruo's drawl interrupts from in front of Petra, cutting down the chance of anyone taking a know-nothing brat under their wing while casting sneering glances back at you, and Petra calmly rolls her eyes and allows herself to get sucked into another spat with him.  It's only been 24 hours and already you can't count the number of petty arguments they've had.  He straightens his cravat and puffs out his chest as he talks, and she punches his shoulder and informs him how dull he is, and you hadn't noticed Levi slipping away from them until the muted drone of his voice emanates beside you.

"Sometimes I forget I'm surrounded by teenagers," he sighs.  "And I hate being reminded."

You nod, and you make a firm decision right then and there to never display such juvenile inanity as this, if you can help it.

You start to follow the others into the mess hall to help prepare dinner, but Levi pinches the sleeve of your elbow.  No one looks or questions as he steers you past the door, and you cast a stare back toward Commander Smith, anchoring the party.  He catches your eye and nods a salutation before disappearing through the doorway.

Only a few feet beyond, Levi stops and releases your arm, leaning a shoulder against the wall in front of you.  His forearms cross loosely under his chest, and he holds the manila file in one hand, lazily tapping a finger over it.

You feel like you're being interrogated.

You watch his finger for a moment, then look up at his face, and he's staring at you expectantly.  You're tempted to glance back at the mess hall, but you can hear the ringing of cookware in the kitchen beyond, and you know trying to attract attention wouldn't be possible even if you weren't sure it wouldn't sit well with the captain.

You gulp.  "Sir?"

"D'you want me to teach you?"

You feel your face go slack.  Usually, you'd assume such an offer would come with a price, but you've recently decided to stop making assumptions about Levi; besides, his forthright tone indicates his question is all it appears to be, and you're pretty sure he wouldn't risk your ire to save your life and then turn around and abuse that newly earned trust.

"I'd… really appreciate it, sir."

He snorts.  "Yeah, I bet you would.  Doesn't do anybody much good if you have no idea what the fuck's going on every time you're supposed to read the battle plans."

Put like that… you let out a nervous chuckle.  "Yeah."  He keeps staring at you, and even when you let your eyes wander and you readjust your jacket on your shoulders, he keeps staring.  You wonder if he ever blinks.  "Um… anything I can do in return, sir, just let me know."

"Believe me, this benefits me as much as it does you.  Pain in my ass it would be to have to explain everything to you all the time."

"Well, you know how I love being a pain in the ass," you attempt, even throwing in a paw at his crossed arms for good measure.  He doesn't budge, and you clear your throat painfully.

"Yes, incredibly enough, I'd deduced that much by myself."

You suddenly become very interested in a crack running through the grout near your neckline between stones of the wall, because it's a much kinder thing to stare at than the captain now that you've touched him.  "Well, um… like I said, whatever I can do to repay you, I…"  You shut your eyes for a moment to brace yourself for pure honesty.  "I know I've become a big deal overnight and I can totally understand why, but I sort of still don't understand all the implications, and I just… feel like I'm just some stupid kid from a farm town, I'm nothing more than a burden you have to put up with until you have use for my shifting abilities, I don't know what I'm doing here and I'd really like to make myself useful as best as possible until the expedition."

You dare to meet his eyes again, and though his expression is unchanging, you think his eyes might have gone a bit softer.

His voice is firm as ever.  "Mucking out the stables would prove very useful."

You allow a chuckle at the dissolution of tension.  "Yes, sir."

He has you wait just inside the mess hall as he refills his teacup, then escorts you to the barn and makes himself comfortable on a worn-out stool by the door.  He props the folder open on his knee and shuffles through the contents once more, rereading sections the pair of you had whispered through during the lecture, and sips his tea under his hand while you shovel.

You don't know how he can stand being out here.  He had swept off the surface of the desk at least three times of particles you're pretty sure he was imagining, and he'd rubbed a sleeve vigorously over the ankle of one boot for about five minutes straight with no explanation.  If the dander and hay and dust weren't enough to send him into a neurotic fit, the smell alone should've been, but he sits there with no qualms and no complaints, as if he's in a hermetically sealed office.

You return from emptying a load off the wheelbarrow and smile at the sight of him draining his cup.  Maybe he holds it like that so he can drink in any environment and protect the tea from pollution?  You sigh and shake your head as you move on to the next stall.  You're more inclined to think he's just weird.

Thinking back, you still can't figure out when it happened, but sometime over the course of the lecture, you'd ended up pressed together from shoulder to hip and whispering almost incessantly.

At first, he would offer abbreviated explanations on parts of the text Smith hadn't touched upon, and he continued doing it throughout, but it had been intercut with muttering about the people around you, wondering how Gunther would react to something so unsafe as a flash bang grenade round, musing whether Lieutenant Zakarius could tell the different colors of the rounds by smell alone, posing hypothetical scenarios of how Hanji would react to seeing an abnormal in the field, if she'd kill it or try to catch it, and even laying predictions for the result.  You're probably not going to remember them in a month, but you will remember the electric tickle of his fingertips accidentally brushing your thigh.

You rest your forehead on the handgrip for a moment, catching your breath and letting the cool metal bring you back to your senses.

He's your commanding officer.  He has a job to do here, and it has nothing to do with entertaining you in any form.  Trying to decode him is fine.  Enjoying his company is great.  Getting to know him is even better.

But this fluttering sensation disturbing your breathing needs to stop.  Like, yesterday.

"Oi, Eren," he calls, and your breath halts entirely for the second it takes you to peek your head out of your last stall.  He's reassembled the folder and is leaning back against the doorframe, legs crossed at the knee, and you swear even from this distance you can see the exact color of his eyes.  "I've figured out a method that I think will work for you.  Unless you're dense beyond reprieve — and I really don't think you are," he adds with a lowering of his face so that he's staring at you from under his eyebrows, "it should simply be a matter of memorizing the primer.  We'll have to do that part with writing, at a desk and shit, no way around it."

He diverts his gaze to the teacup as he spins it between his hands, and you go back to the last of the shoveling as he speaks.

"You'll have to get to a point where the sounds in your head match the letters you see on paper, but it should only take a couple days.  Once you've got it, then it's just down to practical application.  You can practice that by spelling things aloud without paper when you're in the field and shit, and of course, you can practice with actual reading when you're indoors.  Writing is gonna be more challenging for a while until you get the hang of it, because it requires a certain level of familiarity and creativity."

You dump the last shovelful into the wheelbarrow and call, "You saying I'm not creative?"

He smiles, and you can't tell if it's a real one or a smirk.  "I'm saying you're inexperienced."

You excuse yourself to empty the wheelbarrow one more time, and when you return, he has replaced the stool to its corner and is standing by the door, picking at his cuticles.  He doesn't wait for you to reach him before he leaves, and you surge to match his pace back to the castle.  His strides are surprisingly long for his stature, the twinned rhythm of your footsteps echoing dimly off the stone walls and mingling with the calls of the water birds nesting along the creek a few hundred meters into the woods.  Though the seasons are still clinging to summer, the sunset paints the leaves a deep red that could trick you into believing it's autumn.

You go to open the door for him, and he reaches at the same time.  You narrowly avoid the proverbial unwitting hand hold, snapping your hand to your chest, and allow him to get the door.  He shoves it open enough for you to scuttle through and stares back at you with a look that might be amusement, but could be scorn; you aren't familiar enough with his expressions to know for sure.

Your mouth waters as you catch the scent of potatoes and leeks riding on a draft down the corridor, and you might not have heard Levi's question had it come from anyone else, someone to whose voice you haven't grown disgustingly attuned.

"You wanna start tonight?"

Hunger pulls at your stomach and sleep drags at your limbs, and you're very tempted to say no, let's wait for tomorrow.  But you know which response will leave the best, most mature, impression.

"Of course!  If you don't mind, sir."

He reaches the mess hall first and holds the door open for you.  "Then we can go straight to my quarters, since I doubt you have stationery lying around.  You mind grabbing dinner to go?"

You do not have the self restraint to avoid staring at him for just a moment.

Time alone with the captain?  In his quarters?

No, you can't say you mind at all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Levi is not a patient man nor an organized teacher, but he tries. Oh my god, does he try.
> 
> I haven't determined exactly which language is spoken in the world of SNK, so I left it purposely ambiguous, but I'm presenting it such that they are using the Latin alphabet and a language that employs the diacritic umlaut. This choice is due to the Cyrillic alphabet being marked as illegible to the general populace in the manga, and due to the widely accepted fanon of the walls being located in central Europe. I've headcanonned German (or a close relative), but naturally, you are free to use your imagination.
> 
> Also! Fanart from [doryakun](http://mitsumurata.tumblr.com/post/67656250408) and [yummy-suika](http://mitsumurata.tumblr.com/post/68283221566) for this chapter! Suika's post also contains art for chapter 8.

His quarters are exactly what you would've expected, if you had stopped to form expectations.

As it is, you hadn't really formed any expectations for him — his lifestyle, his mannerisms, his appearance, his attitude — and your few assumptions thus far have been based off the tribunal, which you know is grossly unfair because he wasn't acting candidly.

But based on what little you've come to know of Levi, if you had attempted to form a concept of the conditions in which he might spend his private time, you probably would have imagined a space so tightly organized as to seem more commodious than it actually is, lined with a surfeit of candelabra to make the place warmly cozy and underscored by the scents of candle wax and aromatic tea.  You wouldn't have anticipated a canopy bed, but the towering frame boasts no curtains, so you call it fair.

You wonder if the commander's quarters are even more resplendent.

There is no need to clear a space on the captain's desk because it's already bare, all files and paperwork methodically sorted in the drawers, punctuated only by the sealed inkwell in the top right corner of the blotter. Before touching anything else, he withdraws a small vial of clear fluid from the nearest drawer and dabs a bit onto his palms, spreading it over his hands until it evaporates. He holds the vial out for you, and under the look he's giving you, you have the impression that refusal is not an option. It smells vaguely reminiscent of whatever had been in Commander Pixis' flask.

Your stew is no longer steaming because he'd insisted on taking about ten minutes to scrub his hands up to the elbows in the mess hall, and glared you into doing the same, but when you set your bowl of stew on the wood, he still shifts it onto the blotter next to his with a pointed stare that makes you feel more sheepish than you already do, as if he's silently accusing you of having been raised in a barn.  He motions for you to take the rickety chair out of the corner by the door, and he slips out of his jacket, folding it on the arm of his own much more comfortable chair.  You take this as an invitation, once you've set your chair next to his a bit too close for casual comfort, to shuck off your own jacket and sling it over the backrest.  He gives you a captious glare between narrowed eyes, but you sit anyway, grabbing up your bowl and starting to wolf down your potato stew; any added cushioning to this splintering excuse for furniture is a blessing.

He seems to recognize that the weight of his stare is doing nothing to deter you, and with a sigh, he withdraws a stack of letterhead and a stick of graphite as you slurp and chew noisily.

He begins to scratch out letters as you watch, and you have to scoot your chair a bit closer still so as to see over his shoulder.  The seat of your chair bumps his, and though neither of you comments, you glance at his face just in time to see his gaze flicking away from you.  "This is the abecedarium."

Okay, wow, you're sure he doesn't _have_ to start out with huge words.  "The what?"

He gives a slow blink.  "The primer.  A list of the letters of the alphabet, in order."

You swallow a mouthful that is probably too large to go down just yet.  "There's an order?"

"Yes," he replies between his teeth, and he carves out the next set of letters with more force than you would have deemed necessary.  "If you learn them in a specific order, it gives you something to run through and find your place when you get stuck.  There's a children's song I overheard once, a mnemonic to remember them by, and once I matched the song with the primer, I was able to teach myself.  Thankfully, you have me, so there's absolutely no need to hear you attempting to cantillate.  Please do not volunteer."

You're leaning on the arm of his chair now, wrinkling his jacket, but he hasn't noticed yet.  "There's a lot of them.  Why'd you pair them like that?  Is that the order?"

"Like wh…?  Oh, no.  Each letter has two different versions, big and little."  You're halfway toward replacing your already-empty bowl on the blotter when your vision blurs, and you stare at the paper without seeing it anymore.  This nearly crushes your resolve.  You thought you had a metric ton of letters to learn, but this halving is a curse masquerading as a blessing, because it turns out half of them are actually the other letters occupying two different shapes at once.  You knew reading was an insidious practice.  "Big ones are used only for certain reasons, which we'll cover later, I guess.  Little ones are for what you see most of the time."

You do not understand the point of this if you can't actually hear the difference, but if it's something you have to know in order to read, you guess you'll just have to plow through it.  "So if I learn to recognize them on sight and connect them with with the sounds they make, then I can figure out words by looking at them one letter at a time, right?"

He nods as he finishes writing and leans back, starting to lay his forearm on the space your hands are occupying, and yanks his arm to his side as though he's been burned when he touches your fingers.  He stares at the armrest for a moment, but doesn't comment.  "We'll start from the top, then."

You agree, and he points out each letter, giving it a name and telling you the sound it makes, and having you repeat him.  Once complete, he has you go through it aloud on your own, but it's several run-throughs of frustrated hands through your hair and half a mortifying hour before you can rattle off the whole thing without his assistance.  As if this wasn't hard enough, your humiliation deepens when he tacks on a disclaimer that some letters make more than one sound, especially when paired in certain combinations with other letters, and you grip a fistful of your hair so hard you dislodge a few.  You hide your burning face in your hands and fold over, dropping your head onto the desk, your knuckles shielding your cheekbones from the cool polished surface.

You feel both indescribably better and indescribably worse when his firm fingertips begin to knead your shoulder.  Your heart flutters so fast you fear for a second that you're going into cardiac arrest because _he's touching you_ and you know how he is about touching, you saw his irritation when you tried to play around outside the mess hall, so you know it must mean _something…_ and you kick yourself in the ankle through your boots, ignoring his "hey, don't," because you're an idiot.  It absolutely means something; it means he's only doing this because you are so goddamn pathetic it's the only way to bring your attention back to the lesson.  You actually need someone to pat your back and tell you you're okay.  You are one fucking miserable excuse for a cold-blooded soldier and you're disappointing him half to death.

"I told you," he murmurs, "I didn't know this shit until I was older than you are.  I'm not gonna laugh at you.  Don't be embarrassed."

"I can't help it," you tell the desk, and you're aware how muffled your voice is through your hands but you can't raise your head to face him, this man you admire so much for his deftness and proficiency, reduced to teaching you something you should have known since toilet training.  You want to crawl out of a window and fall into the woods and never come back.  You let out a wordless groan that tapers into a screech and kick your toes into the floor repeatedly.

"Eren, stop."  His voice is harder, but his hand on your back is softer, his palm rubbing gentle circles into your shoulder blade.  Your whine sounds more like a sob, and it wracks your body like one, but he kneads the top of your shoulder until, involuntarily, you relax into the touch and your form slumps further, curling your toes in your boots.  His hand slides over your spine to squeeze the back of your neck, and shivers dance down your limbs at the sensation of his hand stroking your bare skin.  He sighs, and his hand migrates upward to the nape of your neck, fingertips teasing your hairline for a moment before drifting into your hair, twisting locks and softly gathering fistfuls that he pulls to a mild tension that makes lights pop inside your eyes from bliss.  Your lips part, but you manage to dam back the low groan that threatens to escape.  You imagine how embarrassing it would be to let out a noise of pleasure from his touches, how fast he'd whip his hand away and how hard he'd boot you in the ass straight out the door, and then you remember you're already ashamed that you've been solidly proving to him for the past half hour how stupid you are, and the soothing touches of his fingertips do nothing anymore to relieve you.

"I know," he murmurs, and you know you're hyperventilating because you almost didn't hear him over your wimpy gasping.  You freeze, and perhaps he feels it, because his fingers pause for a moment before sliding back down to your neck.  "You know you're so much better than this.  And you're terrified that you're not."  You wonder for a moment if you're that transparent, but from his tone, you suspect he's not talking about you specifically; in fact, he might not even be talking about you at all.  "I know."

You've never heard actual emotion in his voice apart from annoyance, so you can't be sure, but you think you might be detecting a reminiscent tone that isn't at all fond.  You turn your head in your hands so you're cupping your cheek, and you watch his face, but he's staring at the blotter, not you.  His fingers move mechanically on your skin.

"Just look at how much farther you are now than you were yesterday.  And think of how much farther you'll be tomorrow."

You're painfully tempted to ask how long it took him to learn this.

You're smart enough to refrain.

He meets your eyes at last, and maybe it's a trick of the flickering candlelight, but you're pretty sure the ghost of a smile flitted over his mouth for a second.  "Come on," he says, patting you between the shoulder blades.  "One more time."

You consent to sit up, and with your resolve intact and a weight in your chest strangely lifted, you resume your place leaning on the armrest of his chair.  His hand stays perched lightly on your shoulder, and you hold as still as you can, as if his fingers are butterflies you couldn't stand to startle away.  As he finally eats his stew, correcting you occasionally between mouthfuls, you recite the abecedarium until you swear you'll be saying it in your sleep.  He teaches you the difference between a vowel and a consonant, introduces you to diphthongs and consonant clusters, and explains how placing two dots above a vowel changes the sound it makes.  After another two hours, he can point to any letter out of order and you can tell him without fail — or, without much fail — its name and all the possible sounds it can make.  You even ask him to quiz you harder on the consonant clusters, but he rubs a hand over the shaved back of his head and insists you need to sleep if you intend to actually store any of this in your long-term memory.

You wonder what the buzzed portions of his hair feel like, and when you zone out and stare long enough that he catches you and raises an amused eyebrow, you admit you're pretty tired.

Only when he pats your back and removes his hand to push himself away from the desk do you realize his hand had remained on your shoulder the entire time.  The corresponding patch under your shirt feels uncomfortably cold without it.

The handle of the brass lantern squeaks as he picks it up to guide you to the basement.  The halls are oppressive and foreboding without the warmth of torches or voices, and you don't argue when he says he'll double back to drop off your dishes at the mess hall after you're locked in.

The dungeon is deep enough underground that there are no windows, and without moonlight to delineate the space, you aren't sure you'll be able to sleep.  You express concern of this to Levi, who sighs and lights the torch outside your cell.  You're free to choose whichever one you want — they're all laid out the same with a tiny cot anchored to the center and a toilet station in a corner — but your trunk and bag are already in the cell at the base of the stairs, and out of sheer simplicity, you elect to stick with it.  He waves you in, and as you sit on the bed to remove your boots, he slides the door home with an unpleasant slam.  You scrunch your eyebrows at him because isn't he supposed to shackle you or something?  But his hands are moving, a key clicks in the lock, and he holds it up for you to see before dropping it into one of his breast pockets.

"This is the only copy," he informs you, and just like in the justice hall dungeon, his muted voice carries across the space with ease, "so you'd better hope it doesn't get stolen."

You chuckle and cast your boots beside the bed, figuring he must think the cell is containment enough.  "I trust you not to lose it."

He snorts.

You unbuckle your gear and peel all the straps off, but when you go to unwrap the apron and unbutton your fly, you notice he's still standing there, staring at you.

You're tempted to ask if he's fallen asleep standing up, equally tempted to ask if he'd like to draw a picture because it'll last longer, and you refuse to admit, also quite tempted to ask if he'd like to invite himself in to help you finish, but all that comes out is, "Sir?"

He gives a slight shake of the head that you aren't sure you actually saw.  "Hot water's turned on for an hour at eight.  I'll be here ten minutes early.  If you're not ready, I will drag you up there and throw you into the shower fully clothed and still drooling into your pillow, because you fucking reek and I will slit my own throat before letting you sidle up next to me for one more second smelling like that."

You don't know how you're going to wake yourself without some sort of time-keeping device, so you hope you're going to wake up in time, and you nod.  "Yes, sir."

He leaves you without another word, and when the sound of his footsteps has faded away, you pull off the rest of your clothes and dig through your trunk for sleepwear by torchlight.  You catch a whiff of yourself in the process, and after a moment's debate, you decide it couldn't hurt to rinse off a bit in the sink before climbing into the nice clean bed.

The mattress smells like dust and Armin's grandfather's hat, but it's surprisingly comfortable.  You don't have a lot of room to roll around, but then again, you're used to not having that luxury.  Still, Levi must be pretty cozy in his enormous bed with its plush-looking crimson comforter.  Actually, that bed's so huge it makes a dwarf out of him, and you giggle for a moment at the image of him in an endless field of mattress before it occurs to you that with all that space and no one to share it with, it might be kind of lonely.

You fall asleep mumbling the abecedarium.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day, I will update this before midnight. One day.
> 
> This was going to be longer, but I have work in six hours, so it's not.
> 
> Due to various factors in canon, I've chosen the rank of captain for Levi despite "heichou" translating literally to "lance corporal" (a largely obsolete rank anyway). The "ranking system" for the Corps seems to be arbitrary rather than officially graded, and from my observations, it mainly indicates how much time they've spent in the military (eg. since Hanji has been in it longer than Levi, she "outranks" him by pure seniority). If anything is canonically revealed that points to a different type of ranking system, I'll be sure to make adjustments.
> 
> Also, apparently somebody put this in the [AOT fic recs](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/FanficRecs/AttackOnTitan) on TV Tropes?? I don't know who you are, but I love you. TV Tropes fundamentally and irreversibly changed the way I approach storytelling, and to be featured in the recommended section is an honor I wouldn't have dreamed of. Thank you, friend.

The crash of the cell door slamming open has you shooting bolt upright in bed and flinging the covers aside, garbling "sorry, sorry" through gummed-up lips and stumbling to the floor before you've even achieved sentience.

Levi's heavy footfalls stop at the foot of your bed, and the torch still burning in the hall illuminates his profile with arms crossed and all his weight rested on one leg, his hips tilted into a confident slant.  "Relax, I'm early."  You take this as tacit permission to sit back down, which is great, because you've been hit with a wave of vertigo that renders you unable to keep standing.  The moment you're seated, he tosses something at you, and you do not yet have sufficient possession of your reflexes to catch it, so the bundle of fabric hits you in the face and falls to your lap before you can get your hands up.  "You left this in my room.  I could barely fucking sleep through the stench.  Next time you muck stables and work up a sweat worthy of a polecat, you do it without your uniform."

You're still too groggy to fully register what he's talking about, but you do know it's an order, and you gurgle another apology and a "yes sir" and rest your head between your hands, waiting for the dizziness to subside.  He stands there for a minute, and when you've regained your equilibrium and can lift your head without causing the room to spin, he tuts at you and strides over to your trunk, still open and in disarray from your search for pajamas.

He pushes a pair of your white jeans around with his boot.  "How much of this is clean?"

Your brain is starting to work better, and you're able to derive implications from context at last.  "S'posed t'be all of it," you mumble through a yawn.

He glares back at you.  "Clean as in 'freshly washed', not clean as in sweaty teenage barrack standards."

You nod.  "S'all clean, I'd just got moved to Trost and I uh, haven't really had the chance to change 'xcept like twice since then.  'Cause of being in jail an' all."

You yawn through the latter half of that statement, and his mouth falls open too, but in a horrified grimace.  "You must… be fucking filthy."  You guess he's right; you hadn't really thought about showers but you suppose it has been a couple weeks.  You scratch the back of your head and yeah, the level of grease you can feel is beyond the norm.  "Hot water comes on in twenty minutes, but you're on laundry duty, so I figured you'd need time to gather your own shit too."

You sniff away the last traces of sleep haze and give a more assertive nod.  "Thank you, sir."

"Don't thank me if you're not going to take advantage of it," he replies sharply, and oh right, that means you have to get moving.  You rise and move to his side at the trunk, and it doesn't escape your notice that he sidesteps a touch away from you, shifting his weight so his face is as far from you as possible.  You pick up your bag and sift through its contents — an entire spare uniform — and find that in addition to your toiletries, you only have to swap out the cloak for clean briefs and socks.  Armin keeps telling you to carry spare socks and underwear, but you keep pointing out that if the shit hits the fan, athlete's foot and swamp ass will be the least of your worries.

The captain's repulsed expression when you only pack one set of each, however, starts you thinking that if you're going to spend most of your time with him, maybe hygiene is something to which you should start paying considerably more attention.

You wonder if that's why he pulled back whenever your hands came into contact with him yesterday, why he took his hand out of your hair.  Your breath catches with the sudden recollection of _oh man, he touched you, he had a hand on you for hours_ , and you wonder if he'll act any differently once you and your hair are clean.

Your stomach rolls with nauseated guilt and self-disgust because you thought you'd told yourself quite firmly to get past this dumb googly-eyed fawning over him and how impressive and accommodating he is and _you're still doing it, you idiot, stop_.  Really, that's what you chose to focus on from last night?  The touching?  Not the reading?  Really?  Get a-fucking-hold of yourself.

You sigh too heavily for too long and pack another pair of socks.

He allows you time to put your boots on over your pajamas and wad up your dirty clothes into a ball, and you struggle to keep all your socks contained while he leads you upstairs and through the maze of halls to the communal washroom.  You can already hear the hiss of the showers and the chatter of a couple voices, but your sight is blocked by a dividing wall shelled in tile.  Levi points out the wicker baskets just inside the entry.  A few of them are already full of clothes, but there's a large stack of empty ones remaining.

"Put your wash load in one of those.  Once everyone's done the same, you can take them out to the pump and get to work.  Soap is in the supply closet in the kitchen.  Towels are in there."  He tips his head toward the dividing wall.  "You'll put that with your laundry, so they get washed too."

You nod, dumping your clothes in the top basket and hefting it out onto the floor with the others.  You look back to him, waiting for his lead on what to do next — whether to just barge in or if you should strip now — but he turns to leave.  Without thinking, you reach for his arm.

"Wait!"

He jerks his elbow away from your touch, and when he stares at you, you can tell he's fighting to not be upset that you haven't yet figured out to not touch him.  "What, you need me to tell you how to scrub your ass?"

"Wh—?  No, I—"  You let out a short chuckle, caught off guard.  "Aren't you… don't you have to… do it too?"

He squints at you.  "No?  I have my own bath."

"Oh."  This both relieves and disappoints you, and you have a heavenly moment of ignorance before your brain gleefully supplies the explanation that you had wanted to see his naked body and you were growing enraged with jealousy at the idea that anyone else had already seen it.

You have no way to hate yourself enough for those emotions.  You attempt to mark it off as "still tired," but you know it's patently untrue, and you're starting to realize you've been lying to yourself all along in asserting it as hero worship and that your feelings for the captain are actually pretty perverse.

You do not know, at all, how to handle this realization.

You think you might throw up.

You know you've been gawking at him far too long because he's giving you the look that means you're being teenaged and stupid again, and before he can glorify it with ridicule, you brush past him and round the dividing wall, fully dressed and carrying your backpack.

Thankfully, there is space for you to put your boots and clean clothes without them getting wet because the showers are all in the middle of the open room, surrounding a trough for your soaps, so the floor is dry within a few feet of the walls.  Major Hanji calls out a greeting, far too chipper for your sick and appalled mood, but you try to match her level regardless.  There's no reason to freak out about your feelings.  It's not like you have any intent to act on them or let them distract you.  In fact, there isn't even cause to ruminate on it, since you already know nothing's going to come of it.  Perhaps if you ignore it, it'll go away.

You busy yourself stripping and making conversation, asking Hanji whether there's a separate shower for girls — there isn't, just co-ed, we're all adults here and no one's going to try any funny business — and whether all officers have their own bathrooms — they don't, just Erwin and Levi, and she should've had the captain's since she outranks him but she gave it up because of how fussy he is about nudity and germs and stuff.  Lieutenant Zakarius comments from beside her that he smells too weird for public showers anyway, and she laughs so uproariously you're sure the whole castle can hear it.

You give Erd a silent nod as you take up a station two down from him, and Petra comes in with smiley greetings and already stripped.  You focus as intently as possible on containing your vision within your own personal bubble.  You've never showered with girls before, never even seen a woman's naked form before apart from your family, and you aren't sure why her appearance is such a big deal to you; weren't you just talking to nude Hanji?

Without your permission, your eyes flit up to catch a peek of the major before you glare violently at your shampoo, as if you could incinerate it with your gaze.  How _dare_ you ogle someone else like that?

You had registered, though, that her body is formed exactly like yours, though with even less muscular definition than your admittedly small amount.

Petra slips into the station between you and Erd with a cheerful salutation, and you reply as casually as you can, keeping your eyes glued to your toiletries.  Even in your periphery, you can tell she has a couple things Major Hanji does not.

You are discovering all sorts of things about yourself and everyone else in here that you are absolutely certain you should not and do not need to know.

Your spiral into troubled cogitation is interrupted by Auruo whipping a towel at your ass.  You let out a yelp that makes everyone laugh at you, and in the rush of releasing all your pent-up adrenaline, you laugh too.  Much as he resembles Jean and much as his arrogant front irritates you, the guy has room to talk the way he does, and you give yourself permission to like him and be grateful for his presence.  He grins and gives you a playful shove that knocks you into Petra, and the two of them start slapping at each other around you, so you hurriedly grab your things and slide to the station Auruo has taken, allowing him to step around you and adopt the one you've just abandoned.  He conforms without acknowledging it.

You have breakfast with your squad, and you find that with the proper relaxed atmosphere, Erd and Gunther are pretty easy to talk to.  Erd talks about his girlfriend back home the way Mikasa talks about you, and something is trying to dawn on you, but Gunther cuts across you to stop Auruo trying to comb Petra's hair with a fork.

Levi sits with Commander Smith.

Not that you're paying attention and mildly upset by his absence, or anything.

Not like you're fascinated by the way he holds his teacup and the shape his lips take as he drinks, the way his arm is slung over the back of the chair and his ankle is draped lazily over his knee, the way he pushes his hair back even though it's not long enough for his ears to hold it.

Not like you're captivated by the pressed creases down the sleeves of his jacket, the folds of his expertly tied cravat, the way you can see through the linen to the shirt buttons underneath when he leans into the beam of sunlight that lays over his table.

Not like you're remembering his spindly, delicate fingers on your skin and wondering what they would feel like running through your clean hair from forehead to neck, tracing the bones of your cheeks and nose and jaw, drawing a line from your mouth down the center of your throat and dipping into the hollow between your collarbones, following their curves over your shoulders and under your jacket, pushing the fabric down your arms as his form slides onto your lap, the heat of his body pressing against you, his mouth hovering over yours just close enough that you can feel him breathe—

Gunther rises, and the other three go along, but as you move to follow, you're met with sudden painful resistance from between your legs and find that you can't stand up yet.

You sigh so heavily it turns into a groan, and you fold your arms on the table and plop your head onto them.  The tightness is exacerbated by the constriction of your jeans, and after lecturing yourself not half an hour ago on how little energy you've decided to waste on this because it's going nowhere fast, you cannot believe you are sporting a stately erection over daydreams of getting macked on by your legal guardian and commanding officer.

You have really got to stop feeling this way about him.

No, actually, you have really got to stop feeling sorry for yourself.

You adjust your junk so it's tucked up, silently worshipping whoever decided to add the apron to the uniform, and take your dishes to the kitchen.

You pretend not to notice Levi staring at you with a thin eyebrow raised.

He, apparently, has other business to settle while you take care of your chores, because Lieutenant Zakarius assists you in taking the laundry out to the pump in the courtyard and washing it all, one basket at a time so as not to confuse anyone's clothes.  He proves to be almost as difficult a custodian as Levi, though, because he insists that some clothes still smell foul after you've cleaned them four times, where some you barely get wet before he deems them acceptable.  You give up trying to ever understand him and his nose, and comply to his guidance without a word.

Instead, you recite the alphabet in your head.

You ask Lieutenant Zakarius — "Mike," he interrupts, "just Mike" — if he ever heard a children's song about the alphabet.  He gives you a strange look and asks why you'd want to know.  You have no doubt that he doesn't buy your "I heard someone mention it and I'd never heard the song, so I was just curious what it is" as detailed enough explanation, but he indulges you anyway.  You memorize the tune instantly.

He tells you the song smells weird when you sing it.  You have no idea what that means.

You get the blessing of Mike's squad appearing as you're finishing up, and they help you hang everything on the lines at the far end of the courtyard.  There's a lot more than you're used to, and while you hadn't noticed the effects of it during washing due to Mike's nose distracting you, by the time you're done, your fingers are callusing from pinching so many wooden clips.

You arrive at the kitchen in time to help prepare lunch.  As it turns out, Mike's squad has spent the morning fishing in the creek, and they've caught enough salmon to last everyone the rest of the day and all of tomorrow.  Your experience with skinning and deboning fish amounts to zero, so you get the job of cutting and gutting, which is equal parts disgusting and hilarious.  You take Levi's advice about ditching the uniform for gross tasks, and you leave your jacket over the back of a chair in the mess hall, rolling up your sleeves to the biceps.  You start humming as you work, and the tune eventually gives way to the words of the alphabet song, and instead of asking what the hell you're doing, Mike's squad sings right along with you, growing more animated as the repellent nature of the work wears on all of you, drowning out the foulness with whimsy.  Mike tells you the song smells better now, and Dieter teases him for being able to smell anything over the fish innards.  Nanaba's squad intervenes to take enough fish for cooking lunch and get out of your way as quickly as possible, because between your slippery guts and Ivan's heads, no one wants to touch anything near the two of you, and you're about ready to start a fish-part-flinging war across the prep station to the rhythm of the alphabet song.

Save for a few livers and enucleated eyeballs, you manage to refrain from an all-out food fight, but by the time Levi arrives in the crowded mess hall at last, you're elbow deep in fish blood and laughing hysterically, and the look he gives your arms through the service window makes you laugh even harder.

If you can't stop thinking about him, you're going to annoy him.  It's the perfect plan.

That is, until you see Petra sit beside him and pat his shoulder, and he does absolutely nothing to push her away.

Jealousy flares in your chest, red-hot and blinding, and you step hard on your own toes out of rage because hadn't you decided last night to never act like a dingus around him and leave the impression of an immature little piglet?  Now look what you've done.

You excuse yourself to grab your own cooked lunch, and you take up a wash station within sightline of his seat, scrubbing your hands and arms, even under your fingernails, until you spot him looking in your direction.  You don't let on that you've seen, continuing to scrub until you're sure every pore is cleansed of anything you've contacted since you were seven and your flesh is flaming pink halfway up your forearms.

You plate yourself a salmon steak and some greens and start toward his table.

Only when you're one table away do you notice he's sitting next to the chair with your jacket on it.

You aren't sure what to make of this, so you decide not to think about it.

Erd and Gunther haven't joined them, but Auruo has, and his arm is hanging over the back of his chair in a posture identical to the captain's.  He adjusts his cravat pointlessly before cutting his steak into duplicate sized morsels, no easy task with just one hand, and he's only halfway done by the time you set your plate at the spot on Levi's free side, where your jacket waits for you.

"Afternoon," you hum, mostly to Petra and Auruo, who give you a "hello!" and a grunt respectively, and Levi stares at your hands.  He watches you take a few bites, and after a moment of trying to catch his gaze with your own, you stab a leaf of steamed spinach and start to move it toward his mouth.

At first, he pulls his head back in surprise, and you realize he zoned out staring at your hands and didn't notice what you were doing.  He meets your eyes at last, and though his expression is still blank as ever, his usually expressive eyes are unfathomable.

Then he leans toward you and bites the leaf off your fork.

Petra and Auruo both go as silent and rigid as you do, but Levi holds your gaze while he chews.  You can't help but watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows.  The tip of his tongue peeks over his lips for a split second, and the gentle sound it makes is crystal clear in the silence of your table.

He takes advantage of it.  "Wash your hands hard enough, Eren?"

The strain broken, you put your fork down and hold your palms up for his inspection.  "You tell me, sir."

He shifts, twisting his body to face you, and takes each of your hands in one of his own, and your whole body lights up with a sudden charge of tension.  His fingertips prod yours exhaustively, bending your fingers to examine under your nails, tracing the lines of your palms and settling in the spaces between your fingers.  He gives a strange kind of squeeze, and involuntarily, your fingers curl up around his.  His eyes drift up to yours, and you swallow hard, though your mouth is suddenly dry.

"It'll do."

You nod for a moment while you regain your command of verbal expression.  "So glad I've come this much closer to meeting your standards, sir."

He chuckles and releases your hands, turning back to his plate with a smirk.  No… that's a smile, that is definitely a little smile tugging at the side of his mouth closest to you.  You made Captain Levi smile.  And while he let Petra get away with touching him, he actually _initiated contact_ with you.

Giddy pride makes you feel like you're floating above your chair, rather than sitting in it.

He informs you that the rest of the day is free for personal time, and mentions with a nonchalance that impresses you that he'd like to do some reading and would be content to share with you, if you'd like.  He has a feeling it's a subject you'd enjoy.

You have a feeling it's the abecedarium.

You try to smile but you end up grinning, and you accept with a bit too much enthusiasm.  Levi rolls his eyes, and you take his empty dishes up to the service window with yours, giving them to Nanaba while Levi refills his teacup.  Ivan and Dieter break into a rousing chorus of the alphabet song at the sight of you.  Levi does a double-take and stares at you scrutinizingly, but you just shrug and follow him out.  There's an extra spring in your step as, for the second time, you find yourself trailing Levi out of the mess hall and up to his quarters.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff so sweet it'll rot your teeth.
> 
> And before midnight, holy shit.

The alphabet song has proven itself infinitely more valuable than you could have imagined, because without it, you're sure you wouldn't remember half the letters.  You're very thankful that most of them are named after the sound they make, as well, and you attribute to this the fact that your first run-through of the abecedarium is a flawless success.  Levi's "good job" has you vibrating in your seat, though it's no less uncomfortable than last night.

When he asks you to try writing them yourself, you accept without hesitation.

Then he removes his primer and gives you a fresh sheet of letterhead, and you falter.  You aren't sure you can remember all the shapes by yourself.  You flash worried eyes at him, and he urges you to get what you know out of the way first and come back to the harder parts later.  If you're well and truly stuck, though, he assures you he will assist.

You pick up the stick of graphite and hold it the way he was as best you can remember, and he minutely adjusts the curve of your fingers and the angle of it in your grip until it actually feels pretty comfortable and natural, and he lets you lean forward across his space so you can reach the blotter and write.  You manage to remember most of the capital ones and nearly all of the lowercase, but you do get stuck on the difference between X and K, especially since their sounds are so similar.  You also get a few of the ones with stems confused — d b p q just flip them around and they're all the same letter, how are you supposed to know which one's which? — but he reaches across your back and squeezes your shoulder in a gentle pulse, and when he turns the paper over for you to try again without cheating, you accomplish the task without having a meltdown.

His full palm rubs across your shoulder blade.  "Excellent.  Damn, I didn't expect you to get this far after just a day.  You catch on fast."

Not really, you're only decent at learning basics and anything complex or upper-level has you screeching in rage more often than not.  No one has ever accused you of being "a natural" at anything, and D.I. Shadis made no secret of the fact that both Jean and Marco's scores demonstrated higher proficiency than yours and you only squeaked past them in the final ranking by the sheer force of your gumption alone.  But damned if you're going to let a little thing like innate ability stop you.

You write it again, and again, each time faster and more competently than the last, and when your ability to scrawl it matches your capacity to rattle it off aloud without a hitch, Levi pats your back in congratulations and proposes it's time to start stringing the letters together into words.

Your stomach flip-flops and your heart knocks on your breastbone like it's begging to be let out, but you pull a deep breath and nod that you're ready.

He suggests that you start with something simple, something with which you're very familiar — your name.

He takes out an inkwell pen and pulls up a piece of letterhead you've discarded, and he writes out _E R E N_ with short, simple strokes.  He closes the pen and twists the cap around in his fingers as he asks you to study it and figure out why he spelled it the way he did.

You look at the letters and, out of order, it's surprisingly harder than you thought to remember what sounds they make.  You pick out each one and sound it out, and though it feels like it takes you an excruciating amount of time, it's only a few seconds before the individual sounds blend together into a word, and you can whisk your finger under them and recite it.

The letters blend together in your sight to form a whole, not just four separate characters, but one unit.  _EREN._

Your breath hitches so hard, you think the whole world paused.

You can read.

You just looked at a bunch of lines on paper and didn't see squiggles, you saw your name, a symbol that's yours alone and just for you, you can read, you can _fucking read!_

He smiles at you.  It's small, but like the captain himself, the amount of space it occupies is inversely proportionate to the amount of weight it carries.  That tiny smile is the most important thing in all the world.  "Very good."

Your own smile is so large it threatens to break free of your face.  Your voice sounds like you might dissolve into tears.  "Thank you, sir."

He lets out a chuckle through his nose and squeezes your shoulder briefly before the smile starts to fade.  He pushes the paper toward you and submits that you try your last name.

_Oh._

You stare at the primer you've written at the top of the page, and your mind goes blank.  He's sitting right there, watching you, judging every line you put on the paper, and what the hell were you _thinking_ assuming you could learn this shit?  What are all these squiggles, why do squiggles make noises anyway?  Reading is so goddamn stupid, holy—

You take a deep breath and let it out slowly.  _Get a grip.  You've been studying this all day.  You can do it_.

"It's exactly the same," he says, either not noticing your panic or trying to talk you through it, "but in reverse.  Stretch it out into separate sounds, and pick the letters that you think match those sounds."  You nod, but your hand is frozen, and you stare at the primer, trying to rattle it off in your head as fast as you were doing a moment ago.  "If you need to do it out aloud, that's fine, I swear I won't laugh.  I had to do this too, once upon a time, remember?"

Somehow, you keep forgetting it, actually.  He's so utterly in control of himself and he exudes an aura of absolute confidence that you simply do not have and cannot duplicate, and you find it increasingly hard to believe that Captain Levi ever sat where you do now.  Part of you readily believes he 3D maneuvered out of the womb exactly as he is in full uniform.

You look at your first name, inked boldly in his handwriting.  It still looks like squiggles, but it's your name, too.

You can do this.

You put the graphite to the paper.

The first letter is easy enough; only one letter makes a sound like that.  You carve out a _J_.

The next sound is a tricky little bastard that nearly ruins you.  You sound it out, and you touch the graphite down in the next spot in preparation to write an _E_ , but your hand stills.  You can't see Levi's face without moving — he's slouched back in his chair while you hunch over the blotter — but the force of his gaze unsettles you, trips you up, and makes you think about it a little harder.  You sound it again, draw it out longer, and the answer rises for you like the dawn.  It's not an E, it's an A, but it's in the front of your mouth instead of the back, one of those dumb letters that changes its sound when two points are on top of it.  What had Levi called it?  Umlaut?  Whatever it is, your breath rushes out in relief that you've caught your mistake before you could make it.  You hatch out an _Ä_.

 _G_ comes even more easily than the J had.  You almost don't even pause between letters.

Similarly, you already know your name ends in _R_ , but you don't write one yet.  Your eyes stop on the letters of your first name.  You remember Levi telling you at some point that the E is the most common letter but you'd never know it because it appears almost silently in so many places.  Deciding to take a gamble, you write _E R_ and slap the graphite down.

You're almost too afraid to meet his gaze and hear his appraisal, but you force your fingers to slide the paper back to its place in front of him, and you concede to meet yourself halfway and glance at him sidelong.

His hand on your shoulder constricts.  "Perfect."

Your eyes blow wide, jaw drops, and you almost choke on your own spit.  "Really?"

He nods, and your elated adrenaline floods you again, making you grab the armrest and bounce in your seat.  He chuckles at you, but he tugs your shoulder toward him until you're leaning against his front.  You aren't sure why he's being so physically demonstrative with you — maybe he's figured out how much you enjoy it and is giving you incentive to continue doing well — but at the moment, you don't care if he believes you need coddling, because you kind of do.  You wind your arms around his middle and squeeze him against you, trapping the armrest between you, and he lets out an "oh- okay" as you bury your forehead in his shoulder.

"Thank you," you whisper, and you're not even sure which thing you're thanking him for, be it touching you, letting you touch him, teaching you all of this, or just giving you the time of freaking day.  Inch by inch, he relaxes into your embrace, and you wish this damn armrest wasn't in your way because _damn_ he's so warm.  Even through his shirt, you can feel the sharp definition of every muscle in his torso, unyielding framework wrapped in smooth, supple flesh, and you can feel the way his skin slides over the muscles as they expand and collapse with his breathing.  The broad muscle of his lower back stretches under your palm as his arm rises, and he cradles the back of your neck, fingers slipping into your hair.  You clutch him tighter, wadding up fistfuls of his shirt, and he combs fingertips slowly through your hair, letting you hug him until the angle becomes uncomfortable.  He draws back first, and when you sit properly in your chair once more and meet his eyes, you think you're both aware that you would've been content to hang onto him as long as he allowed it.  His hand has migrated off your shoulder to the back of your head, and he toys with a bit of your hair.  Maybe it's your imagination, but it looks like his face still holds a phantom of that smile.

"You're welcome," he murmurs.

You return your gaze to the paper, clearing your throat needlessly.

Continuing to play with your hair, he bids you try a word all on your own.

You purse your lips and consider what to write.  You know immediately what you want to write, but what if you spell it wrong and make an idiot of yourself and embarrass him?

You're beginning to suspect he can read your mind, because he tacks on, "Not to be incredibly presumptuous, but please don't try my name."

You look back at him.  "Why not?"

"Because it comes from another language, one that no longer exists, and it follows approximately zero of the rules I've taught you."

"Oh."

You do not know how to contain your disappointment.  You had sort of desperately wanted your first real written word to be his name, and while you're aware of how stupidly cheesy that is because it's only been like three days how the hell did you develop feelings for him so fast, you still have no idea what to write now.

You tap the graphite against your closed mouth in contemplation.

Perhaps you can get away with writing his rank?  If you can figure out how, that is.

It's harder to do without working through the sounds aloud, but one painstaking letter at a time, you're sure you've got it right.  Well… almost sure.  Hell, you're not sure at all, why did you pick this word, what were you thinking?

You slide the paper over to him and hide your burning face in the crook of your arm.

You hear him lift the paper, and after a moment, he says, "Very close."

 _Very close_  feels almost like a _completely wrong, you failure_ , and it's only with great effort that you turn your head to face him.  His hand returns to your back, gently scratching you between the shoulder blades, and he says, "Think about the difference between the N here and the one at the end of your name.  You hold this one out longer, right?  So there are two of them."  You look at where he's pointing, and you nod, repeating the words in your head.  That makes sense.  "Still, I wouldn't have expected you to have figured that out, and you're doing better than I'd anticipated with this vowel here."  He replaces the paper on the blotter, and you draw your knees to your chest and duck behind them up to your nose.  "It's good.  Nice work.  And very clever word choice, you little shit."

You smile into your knees.  "Thank you, sir."

A fingernail tickles you behind the earlobe, and you flinch away on reflex, getting him to laugh, low and soft.  "Want to try another one?"

You do, but… "Actually sir I've gotta pee so bad I think I might explode.  I haven't gone yet today."

"Fucking hell," he says with a surprised chuckle, "bladder of titanium.  If you get kidney cancer it is no one's fault but your own."  You sit up and try to ask him with your countenance alone whether you have permission to use his washroom.  Your telepathic attempt seems to work, because he jerks a thumb toward the window in the corner.  There's a door in the same corner that you'd never noticed.  "Help yourself.  And wash up after, for the love of God."

"I'm not a caveman," you snort, rising out of your chair — you doggedly refuse to jump to your feet and scamper off — and moving totally calmly toward the bathroom.  As you grab the doorknob, he calls your name after you, and you pause to look over, definitely not upset at having to hold it longer.

"Behind the mirror, there are some, ah… toothbrushes, in packaging.  Feel absolutely free to take one and use it."  His grimace makes you giggle.  "Nothing personal, but… yeah."

You nod.  "Sure thing, sir."

He nods toward the bathroom.  "Get in there before you shoot across the room on a jet stream of compressed piss."

Still giggling, you slip through the door.

Levi's bathroom is enormous.  You actually have to take a moment to locate the toilet, and even when you find it, the only thing that keeps your aim dead on target is the knowledge that he would probably peel the skin off your living body if you get a particle of urine anywhere else.  You're so enraptured by the claw-foot bathtub — big enough to fit a three-meter class, you'd bet — and the glass-encased shower stall with a rain head, that you nearly don't notice the cool little pull chain to flush the toilet has a wrought iron rose hanging from it.  The sink looks like it's been carved out of chalk, but it's hard as concrete, and the mirror is framed in brass so shiny it looks like gold.

As you scrub your hands, the scent of Levi's favorite tea greets you, and it takes you a few seconds and test sniffs to figure it out, but you're certain the smell is coming from the soap.  You're pretty sure this means he literally bathes in his tea.

This knowledge stirs something in your stomach that feels like boiling water.

You can't remember the last time you used a toothbrush, but you know it was long enough ago that you still lived in Shinganshina, because you hadn't had a toothbrush to bring with you to camp when you enlisted, and you haven't had one since.  The minty paste makes your mouth tingle, and you bleed a bit from between your teeth, but you swear your teeth are a shade whiter by the time you're done.  You'd forgotten how pink your tongue is.

When you emerge, he's kicked his feet up onto the desk and he has a book in his hands.  "Take long enough?"

With a grin for him to inspect, you repeat your response from lunch.  "You tell me."

He nods appreciatively as you reclaim your uncomfortable chair.  "Better."  He snaps the book closed and lifts his feet, sitting upright again.  "Didn't figure you to be one to take hygiene so seriously."

"Probably not," you admit, watching him turn the book over and over in his hands, "but you are."

His hands still.  "So?"

"So…"  You fold your hands and pinch them between your knees.  "If my behavior bothers you, I don't mind changing it."  He raises a fine eyebrow, and you summon the courage to elaborate, "Sort of like how you don't like touching, but you know it helps me work better."

Now his eyebrows scrunch together, creating delicate wrinkles above his nose that you have a violent urge to touch.  "Where did you get the idea that I don't like touching?"

You swallow hard; had you misjudged all his reactions to your attempts to contact him?  "Just that you, um… tend to pull away when I go to touch you, sir."

"Because your hands are fucking filthy."

You stare down at the offending appendages in your lap.  "Oh."

"I don't mind touching, so long as I know you're clean," he says, and he demonstrates with fingers carding through your hair.  "I'm actually pretty partial to it.  What I don't like is being touched."

You're not sure you understand the difference, but you think it has something to do with him being able to control the nature and exact amount of contact, so you nod into his fingers.  "Sorry, then.  For… earlier."

He squints at you.  "What, the hug?"  You bite your lip and shrug.  "Oh no, don't worry about that, I started it."  He opens a drawer to replace the book.  "Caught me off guard, yeah, but… I really should've seen it coming, so it's—"

"Wait, don't—" You start to reach for his wrist, but stop yourself.  "What are you reading?"

His eyes flick down to your hand, frozen in midair, and he murmurs, "It's fiction.  A collection of tales from the old world."  You tilt your head to look at the cover, but it's blank.  "They're written by a pair of brothers who lived around here before the titans.  Just short stories.  Completely implausible, but…"  His hand sweeps invisible dust off the worn cover.  "Interesting."

You reach for the book, and he lets you take it.  He doesn't even flinch when your finger brushes his thumb.

The print is faint with age, but you can still read the letters, and he consents to read aloud to you as you follow along with your finger, matching each sound to its corresponding letter.  It takes you several pages — almost the entire first story — to get the hang of it, but by the time he's read three, you've glued yourself to his side, gripping his back straps to keep you steady and propping your chin on his shoulder so as to better see the writing, and you can follow along without much issue.  You can tell he's reading slower than he'd like, and you're sorely tempted to rub his sides and his shoulders to thank him, but since that would serve more as an annoyance than a recompense, you refrain.

During the fourth tale, he shifts his shoulder to get you to move your head, and you start to withdraw, but his arm slings over your shoulders and pulls you tighter, so that your head rests against his.  You can feel the vibration of his mellow voice running through his bones, and it feels like a lullaby.

He lets you take over for the ninth tale.

You're very slow and halting at first, and he has to help you more often than not, but you make it through an entire story on your own and it doesn't even take you an hour.  Just barely under, but still, below is below.  He rewards you with fingers raking your scalp.

You're three fourths of the way through the book before the darkness causes you to both suddenly realize you're having trouble seeing the pages because dusk is falling, and you're about to miss dinner.

You scrub your hands almost as thoroughly as he does, but he's very practiced and he outlasts you.  You can tell by his smirk that as he blots his knuckles that he did it on purpose.

You're not sure why, but his teasing you makes you really happy.

He allows you to follow him through the mess hall and sit next to him at a table occupied by a few other officers, Hanji and Smith and a woman whose name you don't know, and you're immediately accosted by Hanji decrying how avidly she'd been searching for you and affirming this with her hands grabbing at yours.  You've pulled away from them before you understand what you've done, and Levi watches your hands and face with widened eyes and a mouth that is clearly on the edge of spilling out laughter.  All you know is that if you get filthy, he won't let you touch him, and you'd like to prolong that as far as possible.

Smith asks what you've been up all day to with a sagacious expression aimed at you from under his eyebrows, and you say "just some light reading" at the same time that Levi growls, "studying."

"Well?" the commander asks over his goblet of wine.  "Which is it?"

You nudge the captain with an elbow, and he gives you a withering look that doesn't affect you.  You turn your smile to the commander.  "Studying some light reading."

Levi elbows you back pretty sharply, and you kick at his feet.  You ward off his first attempt to shove you out of your chair, but the second is more successful, pushing you to the edge of your seat as you grapple with his forearms.  He nearly dethrones you before Hanji's wide-eyed excitement arrests him.  Smith's countenance hasn't changed from shrewd amusement, and the third officer's mouth is hanging open with visible bits of half-chewed food verging upon falling out.  Levi settles for an open-hand slap to the back of your head as the punctuation mark at the end of that exchange.

You can't stop grinning throughout the meal.

Mike informs you through the service window that he and his squad took care of folding the laundry and putting the baskets inside the courtyard foyer, you're welcome, and you feel quite guilty in the face of his disgruntlement until Levi tugs on your elbow and nods toward the door.  You call out a thanks and a sorry to Mike, and he waves you off after the captain, who has already walked away without checking that you're behind him.

You follow him to retrieve your clothes with mild sustained traces of remorse.

You're hoping for more reading lessons, but he escorts you directly downstairs, explaining that you can return your basket to the shower in the morning when he comes to collect you.  And he will be on time today, so you can sleep in an extra ten minutes.  You giggle at a whole ten minutes, and he points out you're getting to bed considerably earlier tonight, so if you don't want those ten minutes, he'd happily take them away.  You bump a hip into his side, and the bewildered look he gives you in response is worth the trepidation that you're touching too much.

You stand just inside the door to your cell, hanging on a bar and picking at a minute protrusion like a little girl plucking petals off a flower.  He stares up at you, and you meet his eyes in the torchlight.

"Thank you."

Your tone is so subdued that his voice carries farther than yours, for once.  "For what?"

You shrug the shoulder not leaning on the post.  "Teaching me.  Messing with me, talking to me, I dunno.  Being there.  Everything."

He draws breath to reply, but stops with his mouth open.  His lips close carefully, and his eyes slide from yours down to your mouth, down your throat to your shirt laces, and stop at the buckle on your chest.  He pulls in another breath, but this one is deep and long and through his nose and it shakes, and it shakes worse coming out, and suddenly you feel like he might be upset.

"Captain, are you okay?"

He doesn't act as though he's even heard you.  A hand rises, slender fingertips resting on your collarbone, and slowly, they curl to hook under the strap across your chest.  Boots barely making a sound, he steps closer to you, and your heart leaps up to your throat in time with his second hand reaching to grip your chest strap as well.  You know you're hyperventilating but you can't stop, you can feel his heat radiating onto you, and you know the bend of that waist and what it feels like under your hands.  His fingers move to the buckle, and just as slowly, almost reverently, he pulls the leather free and lets the brass clasp jingle against his palm.  He pulls the straps open and abandons them, touching a single hand to your chest through your shirt, fingers kneading the pectoral muscle, thumb memorizing the dips and grooves of your sternum.

You remember craving this moment just this morning over breakfast, and there's only one thing missing from your fantasy.

His ability to read your mind surfaces again, and his gaze glides up to yours.  Though his eyes are heavy-lidded and narrow by nature, you've never imagined seeing them like this, drawn into slits so relaxed he may as well be waking from a dream.

And wake he does, sucking a breath so sharp it borders on a gasp and dropping his hands from you.

"Go to bed, Eren."

His voice is stern, but still soft, and you risk taking a moment to touch his shoulder, as if brushing away a hair, and you give him a gentle smile as you step back enough for him to close the door.  "Goodnight, sir."

He hesitates for a moment, and it may have been a trick of the light, but you think you see his gaze shift to the bed for a second.

"Goodnight."

He slides the door shut with its accompanying slam, and tonight, he wastes no time locking it, dropping the key in his pocket, and leaving.

As you strip, you believe you hear his footsteps stall on the stairs, but by the time you've pulled out your newly cleaned pajamas, he's moving again, and then the sound is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I've headcanonned German (or a similar evolution thereof) as the language of the walls, the word I picked out for "captain" is "hauptmann," which means something closer to "leader" than to "captain" and therefore fits with the idea that their titles don't follow an actual military ranking system. I left this out of the narrative, though, so you can supply your own title for him.
> 
> As a side note, I hope Levi's meticulous nature is in keeping with his character. I'd like to think it would be exacerbated, if not straight up caused, by living in a cave in his younger years. Some people develop a resistance to nasty situations; others lose what precious little tolerance they have. Levi, in this case, is the latter.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My verbosity once again gets the better of me. Events of canon will start to trickle in next chapter, I promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Breathes heavily because and [zipra](http://zipra.tumblr.com/post/67514001167/), [hitchhikerwithoutguide](http://hitchhikerwithoutguide.tumblr.com/post/67645725901/), and [casualdorkpatrol](http://mitsumurata.tumblr.com/post/67629096933) all painted fanart for this chapter 8D

You're not sure what you were dreaming about, but the sensation of Levi's fingers in your hair is so vivid it wakes you to find that it's real.

You lie there with your eyes closed for a minute, relishing the gentle glide of his nails across your scalp, weighing whether you could get away with letting him go a few minutes.  He'd probably get upset that you're taking so long to wake up, though.  You hum appreciatively as a smile curves your mouth, and you murmur, "Morning."

His hand slows, but doesn't stop.  "Knew the end of your snoring meant you'd woken up."

You scoff through your nose.  "Whatever, I do not snore."

"You're right.  Snoring usually doesn't entail everything in the room drifting toward your nose with each inhale.  I swear, you're trying to aspirate the sheets."

You chuckle and stretch your back and arms as best you can while prone.  Your wrist bumps his waist, and you realize he's sitting on the edge of your bed.  "I could stand to have you wake me up more often."

His fingers freeze, and he sits perfectly still as you yawn and stretch your legs, curling your toes.  You open your eyes to see his heavy-lidded gaze stuck to your mouth.  He's wearing the same shirt and jeans he had yesterday and that's all, his bedhead still unbrushed.  He's staring at you so intently, he doesn't notice at first that you've looked at him, and when at last his eyes dart up to yours, he draws in a deep breath so abrupt it must be uncomfortable.

"Get up," he says shortly, and rises, leaving you alone on the bed.  He makes straight for the gate, the soles of his black slip-on shoes almost inaudible against the cement floor, and you sit up to call after him.

"Don't you have to, like… escort me and shit?"

"No, I trust you know how to bathe yourself," he says through a yawn you wish you could see, but his back is facing you.  Without his jacket and harness straps, the triangular muscles of his shoulders are _very_ defined through his shirt, and you blame your intense desire to grab him and grip him hard against your chest and lick a trail up his neck on the fact that you've just woken up and are clearly still pretty drowsy.  "Got my own shower to take, remember?  You might be fine with looking like a hobo, but I'm not."  He slides the key into one of his back pockets, and your eyes nearly pop out of your skull, because _good fucking gracious god._   How have you taken this long to notice his absolutely _glorious_ ass?  Apron be damned, any time you're behind him should have been spent examining _that_ courtyard, because holy shit, the man's greatest work of art is the back yard.  It distends beautifully from his slender frame like a ripe peach, and you're overpowered with the urge to squeeze it like one and ascertain whether it's equally as soft.

You're prevented from acting on that urge, though, because he's already out of your cell and mounting the stairs, calling over his shoulder, "I'll meet you at breakfast."

You wait until his footsteps have faded, as if he could tell without looking, before you throw the covers back and glare at the tent in your pants.

How.  _How._   The actual hell.  Have you gotten _two_ erections over this guy in less than a day?

You splash some cold water on your face from your dilapidated sink, and that shock to your system does the trick; your unwelcome guest disappears as you gather your clothes, and it remains gone throughout your shower.

You get to the mess hall before Levi does — in fact, it's completely empty, apart from Nanaba's squad in the kitchen, and they're just starting to prepare breakfast.  You stand by the door for a few minutes, and when no one else appears, you swallow the trembling in your stomach and decide to meet Levi at his quarters.  You've been up there before, allowed in his bathroom even, so he shouldn't get upset, right?

You pass Hanji on the stairs and only avoid getting dragged into inevitable conversation by jogging straight through your morning greetings.  You can feel her puzzled gaze on your back as you climb, but you don't slow your pace until you're on the officers' quarters level and within feet of Levi's door, where you stop cold.  His door is closed tight, but then, it has been every time you've seen it.  Somehow, being shut out feels a lot more intimidating than being on the inside.

You raise a trembling fist and knock.  The rapping of your knuckles on the wood is a lot bolder than you feel.

His voice sounds from within, and from the muted quality, you think he's across the room — in the bathroom door, perhaps.  "What?"

You grasp the doorknob, but it occurs to you that he might still be getting dressed, and despite the still-present wish to see him in a state of undress, you'd rather not get murdered for barging in on it.  "It's me, sir."

You swear you can hear his eyes rolling.  "I said I'd see you at breakfast.  What, did you wash yourself so thoroughly you scrubbed out the brain cells responsible for memory?"

You elect to go with honesty, rather than attempting to stammer out something less silly.  "I got bored waiting."

He mutters something, but it's tough to make out through the door.  "Come in."  As you turn the knob and peek around the door to ensure his decency, he aims a narrow-eyed stare at you and says, "Impatient little shit."

He says something further, but you don't register it, because you're having trouble hearing over the sight of him in a white crew-neck shirt tucked into his apron and starch white jeans.  The sleeves only reach past his deltoid muscles, leaving the rest of his arms bare and so gorgeous you almost don't mind the apron and lower harness shielding your view of his backside.  You can't even be bothered to note the complexion of his skin or how it reflects the sunlight in such a way that it seems to glow from underneath in places, because his muscles have you hypnotized — the soft swells of flesh and the clean cuts between them, the stretching and bunching as he takes a cravat and winds it around his delicate throat twice before knotting it, the way they disappear beneath sheer cotton as he slides into his button-down.

You're almost upset, but the motions of his fingers meticulously arranging the folds of his cravat makes up for it.

Damn, you have it _bad_.  How could you have ever tried to trick yourself into believing your feelings are innocuous?

He glances in your direction and makes eye contact with you from under his brows.  "You just going to stand there?"

You have no idea what he means by that, but it sends sparks shooting straight down your gut.  You refuse to stutter.  "Sir?"

He grasps the upper body harness that dangles from his belt, the buckles jangling.  "As it happens, I could always use an extra hand getting into this.  I'm sure you can empathize."

Of course you can — you recall hopping on one foot in the showers this morning trying to get the arch padding in place — but is he seriously inviting you to help him get dressed?  You let out a nervous giggle.  "Yes, sir."

You shut the door behind you and start to move toward him, and he actually shuffles an inch or two away even though you're nowhere close yet.  "Don't come _straight over here_ , holy dog shit, you just touched a doorknob."

This baffling statement makes you halt in your tracks.  "Um… doorknob, sir?"

"Fucking Christ, do you know how many people smear their sweaty unwashed hands all the fuck over every single doorknob in the world?"  He tips his head toward the bathroom and gives you a caustic wide-eyed glare.

Oh right, his hygiene thing.  You'd taken a bit longer than normal in the shower this morning, being careful to wash spots on your body you normally don't stop to think about twice or even once about, like behind your ears — and damn, they'd been filthy, no wonder your mom had ridden you about it so hard as a kid — and not only had you been proud of yourself for attempting to meet his standards, you'd been pleasantly surprised at how good you'd felt for being that much cleaner.

You suppose there's nothing to lose by complying.

You scrub for a whole 60 seconds and deem it good enough, and even though he squints at you critically when you emerge, he motions you over.  You try not to stumble over your boots skipping to him as fast as your feet can carry you.  In your struggle to not move too fast, you end up moving too slowly, and he aims a stare over his shoulder and snaps his fingers.  You help him hoist the thoracic padding up and sling the padded straps over his shoulders for him to connect, and you don't admire the stretch of his shoulders as he moves, nor do you let your hands hover on the curves of his waist one second longer than needed as you set the lumbar braces.  You definitely don't smooth the shirt wrinkles under the pads purely as an excuse to feel the swell of his muscles, and you most certainly do not flatten the creases down his arms and back for any similar purpose.  Of course it's absolutely necessary to run your fingertips over a strap on his hip after untwisting it.  Obviously you should slip your arms under his elbows and secure the last few buttons as he buckles the chest strap.  Undoubtedly, you have to prop your chin on his shoulder to see what you're doing around his front, and you should step as close to his back as possible, leaning your chest against his shoulder blades and bumping your hips into his backside.  Clearly, you need to tuck in his shirt for him, and there's every reason for your fingers to dip so low beneath his waistband; you have to ensure there aren't any wrinkles under the harness, after all.

His fingers falter and still in the middle of tightening the shoulder straps, and his head slowly tilts back to rest on your shoulder.  His hair tickles your ear, and his Adam's apple moves as he swallows.  You trace over the bones of his hips and wonder how violently he would freak out if you were to touch your lips to his throat.

You don't find out, because he straightens abruptly when your fingertips accidentally graze over his underwear.

You yank your hands back to your sides and jump back, allowing him to straighten the rest by himself, and you move to fetch his jacket where it's carefully folded over the arm of his chair.  He doesn't look at you as you hold it out for him to slide his arms into, and you don't attempt to say anything as you straighten the fold of the collar, but you're pretty sure the pink highlighting his cheekbones isn't a trick of the light.

You aren't sure if that's a good thing.

Really, you don't know why it would be.

He says nothing as he tugs his boots on, and though he waves over his shoulder for you to follow, he remains silent through the trek to the mess hall, and almost the entire meal.  Every now and then, a look passes over his face like a dark cloud passing over the sun, but no one points it out or asks about it.  You'd like to think it's because you've seen so much genuine exhibition of emotion from him in confidence that you're growing better able to read his subtle expressions, but you have no way to know for sure.  You want to ask him about it, but you've never successfully asked him about his feelings and you kind of get the impression he'd sneer you off, so you resolve that if you still want to ask later when you're alone, you give yourself permission.

When your squad is nearly done eating, Auruo lagging because he's been running his mouth in Petra's direction, Levi murmurs that he's scheduled a meeting with Major Hanji in the debriefing room in half an hour, and you're all on dish duty, so you'd better move quickly if you don't want to be late.

Put off your appetite, you clear your plate and hustle to the kitchen to set up a wash station.

You're not sure why you feel so nauseated.

Though you know you're probably overreacting, you can't help but feel as if he's being dismissive of you.  And really, you can't blame him not wanting to socialize for a while after you nearly grabbed his dick, even if it was an accident.  Or… it was unintentional, at least.  In reality, he's not being any more closed off with you than he normally is with anyone else, but he's reminding you strongly of the first day, when you had known nothing about him and you hadn't been comfortable so much as breathing in his direction and you sort of resented him for abandoning you overnight and making you scrub courtyard grout on no sleep.

You guess, though, that you don't know him any better now than you did then.  It's only been a couple days, to be fair.  You know he's a lot more particular about cleanliness than you would've believed, but that's… kind of it.

Well… you realize as you scrape yolk residue off a frying pan, you don't suppose a lot of people know about Levi's former illiteracy.

You can't imagine the knowledge is widespread either that he enjoys reading fairy tales in his spare time.

You shake your head and sigh heavily.

You really need to stop ruminating on this so much.  Haven't you already decided it's not going to go anywhere and there's no point thinking about it?

Levi takes the lead to the debriefing room, and you walk in file beside Petra.  You staunchly tell yourself you don't mind his behavior and there's nothing to mind in the first place.

Once you're all settled around the blackboard, Hanji perched on the edge of the big desk up front with her wrists propped on her knees and fingers steepled around her lips, Levi tells you that he's found a way to not kill you.

You stare at him blankly because you weren't aware that your mortality was an issue.

He explains he's talking about cutting you out of your titan form should you go berserk, and draws a diagram to further illustrate — oh gosh he is _terrible_ with art, it's shockingly adorable because for being so fussy and particular he can't even sketch out proportionate shapes, and you have a hard time focusing and not grinning — and he even recoils a bit at his own graphic description of your limbs regenerating.  You want to keep dwelling on _what a cutie_ , but talk of cutting off body parts brings you back to your head.  When you tune in long enough to explain you're not sure how much you're capable of losing before it's too much, he gives you a look that makes you completely forget how much smaller than you he is because you feel like you're shrinking into the floor.  Suddenly you remember you had your hands down his pants an hour ago, and your humility turns into humiliation.

He reminds you that with great risk, comes great sacrifice.

Yes, you know that, but…

He asks you to calm down and trust him.

You meet his gaze — hadn't realized you'd been avoiding doing it until this moment, and the weight of it bores in on you — and in that weight, you understand it doesn't matter how well you know him, what secrets he's let you in on, whether you're in love with him or just want to fuck him or simply have a confused virginal hero-worship complex.  Circumstances be as they may; you do trust him.  You trust him completely.  You know he took a great risk to save your life from the MP, and he could've sacrificed your camaraderie in the process; he knows, and has demonstrated, that sometimes there is no clean and easy solution.  Sometimes you have to sacrifice your hold on the very thing you're trying to save in order to save it.

Still, you can't help but question internally whether he trusts you in return.  You want to believe it doesn't matter, but at the core, if he's going to trust you to save humanity, he has to _trust you_.

You wonder if he feels anything at all about what happened in his quarters this morning.

You try to find answers in his eyes, but rather than finding the depths of the universe unfolding within the rings of storm cloud grey, you see nothing but minute striations of muscle that are narrowing further the longer you take to respond.  You've heard that eyes are the windows to the soul, but right now, you think that's a load of shit.  You look at them and you see nothing but eyes. 

You nod silently.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When will Eren's actual illiteracy make another appearance? It is a mystery.

You sit on the cold stone steps outside your cell, head between your knees, and let out a groan loud enough that Levi chuckles at you.

You'd seen the expressions that had crossed his face when Hanji had asked to experiment on you.  You're absolutely sure you weren't mistaken in noticing the raw panic that flitted across his features on knee-jerk instinct, and when the words "too dangerous" had spilled out before he'd been able to check himself, you just _know_ he wasn't talking about whether you'd go berserk.

He doesn't want you to die.

You know it now, clearer than you'd ever dared to imagine.

You'd noticed the guilt that had sunken in when he'd resigned to agreeing the necessity to figure out your triggers and limitations.  You had registered, though you hadn't called out, his gaze ceaselessly locked upon you from that moment until you had disappeared into the well.

You had understood the pain in his eyes to see your hands bitten to shreds and bleeding through the gauze, and had recognized his sudden shift to hard irritation had been a vent for it, because it's exactly what you and Kirschtein had done so many times in the mess hall, converting fear and worry into rage.  You're sure he had ended up pointing out facts — that you had no choice — because he knows from your reading lessons that a simple goal with no alternative makes you work more efficiently.

Then you'd stared at him, holding his teacup in that ridiculous way of his, and Petra tagging along, patting his shoulder as he walked away from you, and something had snapped.

You don't think it's what made you shift, but you don't know.

He had stood between his own squad and you.  He had put his back to you, shielded you, barred you with his arms, tried to reason with them, and as the tension mounted, had even screamed at them to back off and leave you alone.  He had been put in a position to choose, and he had chosen you.

He trusts you.

Before the tribunal, when he'd volunteered to take custody of you, he'd said his decisions had nothing to do with trusting you and everything to do with being the only one capable of killing you.

Now, looking back, you are certain that's not the case, and never was.  You're certain that when you glared up at him and met his eyes for the first time, something had changed in his face.  You _know_ he trusted you then, and he trusts you now.

The knowledge is comforting, exhilarating even, but the butterflies that want to lift off within your stomach are weighted down by boulders.

He might trust you, but they don't.  Not a single one of them would trust you as far as they can throw you, and with a six-meter titan arm attached to you, you doubt any of them could've thrown you very far at all.

Levi has always been a mystery wrapped in an enigma tucked inside the hardest nutshell you've ever tried to crack, and fathoming him has been as difficult as the words you've tried so hard to read, but you thought you had the rest of your squad pinned as friends.  You guess you're too spoiled by the quick and easy friendships you fell into during training, and you have to remember real life doesn't work that way.  You never would've dreamed they would turn on you, threaten violence upon you so abruptly, raise their swords to you and demand answers you don't have without giving you the room to provide them.

You don't know why you couldn't shift when you bit through your hand.  Confusion welled in you, and you bit down again, and again, fighting past the pain, diving headlong through the growing urge to scream with it, biting deep enough to taste bone.  Salt and copper thick between your teeth left you woozy, and you don't know how much time had passed between the green smoke rocketing into the sky and Levi's paling face staring down the well at you.  You don't remember how you got out.

You don't know why you couldn't heal.  Teeth grew back in minutes, strained knees took hours to mend, bashing your hip into a desk hadn't even left a mark, bite wounds wouldn't stop bleeding.  There's no pattern you can see, no sign to indicate what will heal and what won't, no connection to shifting or degree of injury or broken skin, nothing.

You don't know why the titan arm had appeared.

You run your fingers through your hair and grip hard handfuls, and think that if you knew better how to write and spell, you could print entire novels of all the things you don't fucking know.

Beside you, Levi shifts against the wall.  For a second, you think he might be sliding down to meet your eye level or even moving to join you on the stairs, but he simply switches which ankle is crossed over the other.

He had rushed to your side before the smoke had even had a chance to clear, had helped you to your feet and hadn't taken a hand off you until you'd sat on the stairs, had even brought you back on his horse — your gear and your horse being taken by Hanji — and had pulled you off dish duty before anyone could beat him to the punch by deeming you unsafe and bullied Dieter into bringing you both your lunch as he escorted you downstairs, but he hasn't said a word to you apart from asking you how you felt after you'd fallen off the half-formed titan torso.

You want to talk to him.

The tension, this rift, between you has been so thick you could cut it with one of your swords if you still had them, and despite all the emotional turmoil you know he must have gone through all morning, must still be going through, you still feel like what you did this morning was a huge breach of trust and personal space, and you desperately want to talk to him.

Actually, you want to cry.

You refuse, and you cross your arms over your knees, resting your forehead on them.  "I'm sorry."

You know he looks at you, because you hear his jacket rustle on the wall as he turns his head, but you can't look at him.

"For what?"

"Earlier."  You pick at one of the drawstrings on your boot.  "Upstairs."

He sighs long enough that you're not sure how he's still alive.  You hope he understands, and if he doesn't, you have no idea how you'll handle yourself.  You just want to be able to have another reading lesson eventually without literally combusting from the insurmountable awkwardness, and you cannot face the possibility that you might have scratched reading lessons from your future permanently.

He rubs the toe of his boot over a spot of dirt on the floor.  "It's okay."  Mark unsuccessfully removed, he covers it with his foot.  "I'm sure you didn't mean to cross boundaries."

"I didn't, I really, really didn't, and I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, I was just… I got too close and I didn't mean to and I didn't realize, I would never do—"

"Eren, I said it's okay.  Really.  Calm down."  There's a hissing sound as he brushes imagined particulate off his jacket.  "We have enough to worry about."

You can tell by his tone that he genuinely is alright with it and he doesn't want to talk about it anymore, so you don't.  You really do have enough on your mind, and a rock drops in your stomach just thinking about your worries concerning your squad.

"I thought…"  You sigh, raising your head out of your arms.  "I know I'm only alive right now because…"  _Because of you._   "Because I'm here, and… I know my situation is unknowable and terrifying and that everyone's afraid I could be a huge threat to humanity, but… I didn't think they were afraid too."  You don't know why you'd casually felt you could let your guard down with them, but you know now that it had been a mistake.  You think it's because, in retrospect, they each reminded you of someone from your class — Erd with Marco's compassion and natural leadership, Gunther with Bertholdt's tentative reticence, Petra with Christa's maternal doting and surprising resolve, Auruo with… just about everything in common with Jean — but they're _not_ those people, and no matter how much you miss them, that's not going to change.  You need to reevaluate the situation based on who they are, not who you'd like them to be.  "I didn't even notice, until they turned their blades on me… they would kill me without a thought.  They don't trust me."

Levi's answer surprises you into silence.

"Of course they don't."

You stare up at him, but his gaze is fixed unseeingly on the depths of your cell.

"That's why I chose them in the first place."

You try to follow, but this isn't making any sense to you.  Why would he choose a team that he knows full well doesn't trust you?  Isn't that counterproductive?  Perhaps being cynical helps keep them from being blinded against your faults, but wouldn't it be more useful to have a team who supports you?

You don't voice any of this, but it seems you don't need to, because Levi points out something you hadn't even considered, green as you are.

Once you've survived multiple missions — been in countless situations where all the best-laid plans give way to chaos — you get used to making split-second decisions and acting on them immediately.  You understand that you can't trust everything to work out.  You have to assume the worst and prepare for it, and know it can only get better from there; you learn the only thing keeping you alive is how quick you are to react.

In that regard, you extrapolate that the troops you're working with have all been hardened to that truth, grown accustomed to it, and they've come to depend on the knowledge that nothing is permanent and no plan is fail proof.  Of course they distrust you.  They would be stupid not to.  In a world where even the most well-plotted and researched ideals can't hold, why would they put blind faith in an anomaly?

It makes sense, but… you can't help feeling like you've been deceived somehow.  If they never trusted you, why were they so relaxed and friendly with you?

Perhaps Levi senses this indignation, because he says, "It's not like they felt nothing, you know."

You glance up at him, but he's still not looking at you.

"They do care about you.  They don't want to see you hurt any more than I do.  But they'll do what they've been trained to do to survive."

The door opens on the staircase behind you, and though he turns his eyes to you at last, his voice is nearly lost in the descending footsteps.

"Don't expect them to regret it."

You have yet to learn everyone's names, and you suppose you really should get around to it, but at the moment, the last thing of import to you is the name of the man who tells Levi the major is ready to debrief him.  He unfolds himself from the wall like a cat off its perch — you hear the muffled popping of his back as he stretches his shoulder blades — and he moves around you to mount the stairs, muttering about a damn specky git having some fucking nerve keeping him waiting so long.  You simply stare at the floor, wondering about all he's said and the new light it sheds on your teammates.  So… they do care, they do like you, but it doesn't stop them from fearing you or being ready to kill you without hesitation?  You're not sure you can commingle these concepts, but about halfway up, Levi's footsteps stop.

"Oi."

You look over your shoulder at him, and he's turned sideways, waiting for you.

"Come on."

You weren't aware that you were allowed to accompany him; you'd believed the debriefing was just for witnesses.  And truthfully, you're not sure you're ready to face a room full of the people who just squared off against you with no remorse.  But he's looking at you again.  He's talking to you.  His gaze settles upon you with quiet compassion and patience, and the distance you'd felt growing between you is gone.

He'll protect you.

You scramble to your feet and follow him to the mess hall.

It's so dark and tenebrous in here compared to the usual cheery, open atmosphere, and the scents of smoked salmon and dill hang in the air, making your stomach growl painfully.  You're loath to step more than three feet beyond the door, which you don't overlook being closed behind you.  If you don't advance more than three steps, though, Levi doesn't advance more than five, stopping just ahead of you when it's clear you're not moving farther.

"What," he snaps across the table at Hanji, and you almost flinch to hear the thinly concealed rage in his tone, "you took your time pinching a nice long shit?"

His crassness never ceases to catch you off guard, and you allow yourself a chuckle through your nose.  Hanji, accustomed to it, replies, "No, it was actually pretty quick; I got caught up trying to explain to the brass exactly what happened."

Levi shoots you a look of intense skepticism, and you give him a tiny smile.

Hanji's explanation makes next to no sense, baffling and frustrating you with her vagueness and her dogged determination that her first and immediate conclusion must be right, but you go along with it.  You hadn't really been that intent on picking up the spoon.  You'd been more focused on Levi's words, that the whole reclamation project goes down the fucking drain if you're useless, and the sight of Petra's hand on his back, but you don't say anything along that vein, because it wouldn't move anything forward.  As the rest of your squad attempts to bite through their hands to your bemusement, you catch Levi watching you from the corner of his eye.  He keeps his stare fixed upon you as Auruo declares he regrets nothing, and Petra asks you to trust them.

You can feel the scrutiny in his gaze, and you know somehow that after what he's just told you about them, he's burning to see how you'll handle her request.  But even though he's forgiven your blunder this morning, in the light of it, you're not certain you can impress him anymore.  You want to trust them, to fall back into that easy confidence you'd slipped into accidentally, and sure, they're telling you they have faith in you now, that all's water under the bridge, there's nothing to worry about, but a true soldier knows there are no guarantees and the only thing keeping you alive is how quick you are on the trigger.

You look around the table at your new comrades, and you nod vacantly.  "Yeah."  The teeth impressions in their hands are starting to swell.  "Yeah sure, okay."

Then you meet Levi's sidelong gaze, and your next words find direction to him and him alone.

"I trust you."

He looks away, but a trace of a smirk flits over his mouth as he does, and you know you've answered well.  Your heart knocks on your ribcage and you feel like your feet aren't touching the floor.

Hanji claps her hands and exclaims, "Well!  Unless I'm mistaken, and I'm not, you two must be pretty hungry!"

Levi merely grunts, but you cannot nod fervently enough.  He starts to grip the chair at the foot of the table, but you head toward the kitchen, and you dance in place for a moment before he realizes your intent with a wry smile.  He matches stride with you to the wash station you share, and your hands end up colliding more than once during vigorous scrubbing while Hanji's squad pulls out dishes and opens food storage bins.  Once dried and back at the table, he resumes pulling out the end chair, but he leaves it for you while he takes the vacant one at your left hand.  You're sort of unsettled by him pulling out your chair for you as if you're his date, and you're not sure why you're sitting instead of getting food, but you follow his lead, and after a moment, a couple guys from Hanji's squad bring you each a few rolls and salmon cakes.  They're cold, but they're food, so you can't find the will to complain.

Levi's chair has gravitated quite close to the end of the table, and his knee keeps knocking into yours.  You can't find the will to complain about that, either.

Moblit brings out a fresh pot of tea and enough cups to go around, and Levi has snatched the pot and filled a cup before you can register that he's moved.  You giggle, and he aims a toxic glare at you over his hand, which makes you giggle harder.  "Having a little bit of withdrawal, there?"

Erd snorts, and with the cup paused on his lip, Levi glances around the table at his squad, Hanji, and Moblit, all seated and watching him with laughter in their eyes and lips pursed tight to keep it dammed back.  Staring at you, he tilts the cup to take a sip that turns into an impressive gulp that drains half the cup, and Petra's amusement breaks free with such force she spits.  Levi shrinks away from her projectile laughter, resting his shin against yours, and Gunther squints so hard against his mirth that his whole face scrunches up as if pulled by a drawstring.  Hanji bursts into laughter, even going so far as to point at Levi's face, and Auruo launches across the table to grab for the teapot.

You see it as if in slow motion.

Petra's hand shoots out to swat Auruo's arm away, but her strike doesn't have near the force behind it that his stretch does, and she only succeeds in knocking his hand into the grip of the teapot.

The pot wobbles and topples.

Levi is quick to leap back, sending his chair flying behind him, quick enough to avoid the flood that spills off the edges of the table and would have scalded his lap, but not quick enough to avoid the splash that bounces from the tabletop toward his chest and lands squarely on his cravat in a blot of steaming brown as all other motion stops.

Silence falls like a gavel on a block, so absolutely you can't even hear breathing, only punctuated by the patter of tea raining onto the toes of the captain's boots. 

Petra lays the offending hand to her mouth in horror, but Auruo is frozen, his arm still extended as if he can rewind the motion and undo its consequences.  Even Hanji has gone mute.  Levi ignores them all, staring down at his chest unblinkingly as it rises and falls progressively harder with rage-labored breath.

You have no idea how to react to this.

Everyone else in the room seems to believe he's about to explode into a stampeding wrath, but you're inclined to think he's not the shouting type, and as long as the stain can be removed and the mess can be cleaned, he'll look back on it with humor.  The way he's looking at his cravat right now, though, has you second-guessing.

You reach for his hand, limp at his side, but your nails barely touch his palm before his hands jerk away, flying to his throat and tugging the knot undone in abrupt, sharp movements, and he slaps the soiled cravat onto the table with a vehemence that makes everyone jump.  He looks at no one and says nothing as he turns on a heel and strides from the room, and the door slams behind him harder than the gate to your cell ever could.

The silence he leaves in his wake is as terrifying as it is prolonged.

It must be at least five minutes before Auruo makes a choked sound and whimpers that he hadn't meant to, why'd you have to do that shit Petra, and she gripes that he shouldn't have been so brash and impolite in the first place, why does he have to try to imitate Levi all the time, they're nothing alike and _it's better that way_.  Auruo's expression shifts from kicked puppy to offended wolf in a split second with an acidic "well if you weren't so besotted I wouldn't have to bother," and she springs from her seat with a shout of defense that sounds more like the shrieking of a lynx.  Erd tries to mediate while Gunther buries his face in his arms, and Moblit makes himself busy attempting to mop up the spill with shaking hands.

You can't imagine what Levi is feeling right now, but you know it must be bad if he freaked out like that, and frightened or not, you don't have the heart to leave him to his own devices.

In the escalating fight among your squad, no one notices you plucking up the cravat and slipping out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_STOP. There is a one-shot from Levi's perspective after this chapter. Before you read the next chapter,[read Breathe Me ⇒](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1001786)_ **


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Levi is an enormous baby and Eren doesn't know how to change diapers.
> 
>  **Before you read this chapter, make sure you've read[Breathe Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1001786).** It takes place between this chapter and the last, and fills in some gaps on Levi's end that have been left empty.
> 
> Be sure to bookmark the [entire series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/57837) to keep track of all the updates for this arc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse my quiet squeaking because [zipra](http://zipra.tumblr.com/post/67527639710/) and [hikariix](http://hikariix.tumblr.com/post/65188740741/) both painted fanart for this chapter 8)

For the second time today, you stand outside the door to the captain's quarters, and you're just as hesitant to enter now as you'd been then.

No one else had seemed remotely interested in following the captain out of the mess hall, and while you want to believe it's because no one thinks of him in the light you do and no one cares about him as strongly as you do, the rational part of your mind is pretty certain it's because they're smart enough to know when not to mess with him.

You've messed with him before, though, and been forgiven.  You're different.

At least, you hope you are.

Your hand rises to knock, but you're arrested by something smashing into the door from his side and falling to the floor, another identical sound following a moment after.  You hear the slap of something thick and pliant whipping against a hard surface, the snap of metal onto the floor.

Is he… throwing things?

The very idea is preposterous, because this is _Levi_ you're dealing with, cool collected Levi capable of intimidating with expressions of the face and word alone, having no need for action… but he _did_ just throw a small tantrum in the mess hall and storm out in a rage.  You have no idea what the limits are to his patience or willingness to emote — you don't really know his mannerisms too well compared to the others who have been around him years longer, you remind yourself — but you still have the impression that he would have to be excessively upset to lose himself so far as to start throwing things.  Suddenly, your chest aches for him.  If he's in that bad a state, you need to help.

You ease your grip on the cravat squeezed in your white-knuckled fingers, looping it loosely around your neck, and prepare to knock once more, when he lets out a roar so feral and thunderous you flinch and actually scoot back a step.

Your heart is in your throat, knocking on your Adam's apple, and you can't slow your breathing, your whole body trembling like the vibration of a bowstring after it's been fired.

There is _no way_ that sound just came out of Levi.

You can feel panic rising within you like pouring tea into a cup, and you attempt to choke it down but you have no idea what to think about any of this.

You've known the guy for, what, five days?  You've known _of_ him for longer, idolized him strongly enough to recognize him on sight the first time you'd seen him in person, but you've only really _known_ him for as long as you've been at the castle together.  Though it's apparently long enough for you to have developed a powerful attachment to him, it's not enough for you to truly understand him in a way that enables you to predict his moods or reactions or values.

What makes you think you can help him now?

What makes you think you should even try?  He's older than you — you're not sure by how much, but he's old enough to have earned a captain's rank, and that kind of experience would put him deep into his twenties at least — and if Petra's hearsay is anywhere near true, he's dealt with troubling and traumatizing issues before.  You're confident that a person in his position knows how to handle himself.

But you're also nagged by the suspicion that if you'd lived on the streets and had to be a hardened soldier for your entire life before being coerced into being an actual military soldier, that if you were reputed as a person so standoffish and churlish that no one even wanted to ask how you're feeling, you'd probably do really well with some coddling for a change.

You're terrified.  You don't want him to scream at you, and you _really_ don't want him to hit you again.

The sensation of his boot on your cheek is suddenly vivid on your skin, and you rub your face in unconscious reflex.

He hadn't wanted to.  He'd apologized.  Smith had made him do it.  He wouldn't do that again.  He'd only done it to save your life, keep you safe, keep you by his side.  You focus on everything he's done for you throughout this long, hellish day, and remind yourself that he cares about you, had chosen you over his squad, threw himself between their blades and you.  You're still terrified, but you realize your fear is not of being injured — it's of being rejected, screamed down, thrown out.  But you know all he's done so far is pull you in closer and closer.  You shouldn't be afraid of him.  You trust him.

You trust him to not hurt you just as much as you trust him to protect you.

One more time, you raise a hand to knock.

Just as your knuckles make contact with the door and a wavering "Captain?" leaves your mouth, a resounding bang sounds from within, as if your knock has been amplified a hundredfold.  You go stark still, and after a second, it sounds again, and again, and then it's followed by a screech as if he's being drawn and quartered, and a thump that sounds like trying to break down a door.

Instead of frightening you, the sounds cleave straight through your chest and crack your heart, shattering it like a glass ornament.  He sounds like a wounded animal, and anything that could turn your imperturbable idol into a bellowing beast needs to be corrected and eliminated immediately.  You need to console him, and you don't care about the cost.

You knock one more time, and before he can respond, your hand is already on the doorknob.

He snarls "WHAT" as you open the door, and in the instant it takes him to shoot you the most vicious look you've ever seen in your life, you register his appearance.

His clothes are strewn about the room, his form stripped to the crew-neck undershirt you'd admired this morning and tight boxer-briefs, and he's leaning heavily on the desk with both fists, his hair wild from being pulled.  There's a trail of water droplets from the bathroom to where he stands, and his fists curled on the desk are still wet.  They're tinted red at the edges, too, and you realize he's been punching his desk.

You want to run to him and fold him up in your arms, but you can't touch him until you've washed, especially right now; he's okay with touching as long as he's in control, and he's so out of control at the moment, the unwanted unhygienic contact would be the trigger that propels him into a blind rage like firing an explosive round.

He _cannot_ push you away now, not now that you've seen his state, he absolutely cannot.  You can tell he wants to, that he's burning to throw you out and push you back from the spot of closeness you've earned, but you won't let him.

You hold your hands up to tell him without words to stay where he is.

"I'll be right there," you avow, "I'm just gonna wash up," and you sort of lose track of your words after that because his gaze softens so abruptly it's like flipping a switch as you move to the bathroom.  You push your sleeves up as high as they'll go, turning on the water and lathering up with his tea soap, and call out a final promise that you'll be as quick as you can and a plea to not leave.

You've scrubbed your hands pink before you concede to attempt rinsing the tea out of the cravat, and you move it from your shoulders to the basin.  The cold water begins to lift the stain, and you're reaching for the soap when you detect the soft padding of bare footfalls behind you.  You don't have time to look before arms snake around your waist and clench hard over your ribs, and a face buries itself in your shoulder blade.

You freeze, and your voice goes a bit too high for your age.  "Sir…?"

He's told you he's partial to touching and he initiated snuggles yesterday, but this is not normal touching.  He's not hugging you, he's _crushing_ you and it's not with affection, it's with desperation.  It makes your pulse leap into your mouth from worry.

He doesn't respond.

Hands still dripping from soaking the cravat, you attempt to turn in his grip, but he holds fast, as if he's turned to stone.  His refusal to let you face him makes your panic spike, and you feel like you're flying on maneuver gear that's just run out of gas, your stomach swooping with the fall.

"Captain, what—" You hesitate to ask the question on the tip of your tongue because you don't think he'll answer, but you have to try.  "What's wrong?  Are you okay?"  His face shifts to press his cheek into your shoulder rather than his nose, but predictably, he says nothing.  "Sir, what… what happened?"  Abandoning the sink entirely, you twist your torso more forcefully, but he is forged of steel and forbids you to budge.  "Sir please, talk to me, what's wr—"

"Shhh."

His hands fist in your shirt, and you can't _shhh_ , you can't let him stew like this, you're going to start thrashing if he won't let you see him, you have to know what's bothering him and what you can do to help, you have to hold him as tightly as he's holding you until he believes everything is okay, even though it's not.

"Keep washing."

Your gaze flits back to the sink, then over your shoulder at the top of his head.  "Sir, I real—"

"Just keep washing, Eren."

You're remiss to casually scrub out a cravat and ignore him, but you don't know what more you can do if he won't answer and won't even let you look at him, so you acquiesce.  As you work the stain out bit by bit until it's barely noticeable, his hands gradually loosen in turn, and you stand there staring at your palms because you aren't sure what more you can do until he calms down enough to interact with you.  Perhaps you should clean more of yourself.

You open the mirror and withdraw your toothbrush and the minty paste, and you scrub your teeth for at least three minutes as his hands drift across your stomach.  By the time you've rinsed your mouth and resign to washing your face, since you're still anchored here, his hands have moved up beneath your jacket and are rubbing slow circles under your arms.  You wash your face as best you can while he keeps you stuck upright, water soaking your fringe and dribbling down your throat into your shirt, and pat yourself dry at last with the towel.  He shows no sign of being willing to let up.

"Sir… are you just…"  Your reflection looks absolutely bewildered, and you try to calm your appearance, "gonna stand there all night?"

He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly against your back, and as he does, his hands slide up your chest so he's hugging you around the arms.  His fingers splay over the front of your shoulders, tracing over the straps, then slip into your sleeves, tugging against the seams at an angle that must be uncomfortable on the wrists, and it dawns on you he's trying to remove your jacket.  Your stomach jolts as you notice he's watching you in the mirror, his heavy-lidded eyes barely peeking over your shoulder.

Your reflection looks more startled than ever.

You roll your shoulders back, allowing him to guide it down your arms.  He drops it to the side.  The soft rustle of it hitting the floor sits wrong in your ears.  For someone who attempted to glare you into submission over not folding your jacket the same way as his two days ago, you can't reconcile his casual treatment of throwing your clothes on the floor.  His anxiety must have snapped from rage into repose, tipped over the edge from panic into euphoric apathy, and this does nothing to allay your worry because he's still not in his right mind.

You only have a moment to wonder at this, though, because his hands return to your chest, following the straps to the buckle on your sternum and, with nimble fingers, tugging it undone and spreading the harness over your chest, pulling the straps off your shoulders and down, nails tickling over your shirt.  You swallow hard on nothing, his eyes trained on your reflection all the while, and his fingers slide over your stomach to find the belt around your waist.

You are trying very hard to not hyperventilate, but you're getting kind of flushed and you're pretty sure you have no idea anymore what's going on.

He undoes your belt, and his fingers dip beneath it to unclip it from the apron.  He has the apron removed and tosses it over his shoulder before you can ask what he's doing.  The harness slumps to the floor, shin straps still held in place by your boots.

His hands move back up your sides to grip your chest, then rub slow, intoxicating lines down your stomach and settle on your hips, just above your waistband.  His face lifts so that his nose is just under your ear.

His whisper blazes a trail of sparks straight down between your legs.

"I need you to do something for me."

Your voice comes out raspy, as if you've been screaming all day.  "Yes, sir?"

He's still groping you, but the whisper is gone, replaced by a factual tone as if he's asking you to check the weather.  "On the other side of the shower, against the wall, is a supply cupboard.  The bottom shelf has all my cleaning supplies.  I need you to find the one called 'vinegar.'  Think you can sound that out and read it off a label?"

Your jeans are far too tight to allow the erection that strains at the denim, and every fiber of your being wants to shout a well-deserved _OH COME ON_ at it and him both.  You roll your eyes and groan "Yes, sir," and you slip from his grasp to trudge toward the cupboard, walking somewhat ducklike to minimize discomfort.

After struggling a bit with letters and their sounds — you really should have practiced at least a little through the day, you had a whole afternoon to do nothing but stare at dungeon grout — you retrieve the vinegar and carry it to him, and he thanks you coolly, applying a capful to the residual tea stain.  You attempt to adjust yourself inconspicuously as he works the vinegar into the linen, but there's no way to subtly play with your crotch, and you can tell by the set of his shoulders that he's fighting not to laugh at you.  Waddling a bit, you return the bottle to the cupboard when he's done, leaving the cravat in the plugged sink to soak, and you think you might just slap him because you're highly suspicious he did this to you on purpose.

The look on his face when you meet his gaze, though, stops you.  Seeing it in the mirror is one thing, but with his eyes trained on you so intently, you just about turn to jelly.

You'd forgotten he's wearing nothing but undergarments, and the white cotton hugs all the curves and plains of his torso in all the best ways.

You're burning to glance lower, but you don't allow yourself.  As if detecting your yearning, he leans all his weight on one hip, and _son of a bitch_ you can see the swell of his butt without even having to focus on it directly.  His mouth remains a flat line, but his eyes are glittering, and he closes the distance between you, his hand reaching for yours.

If you get any harder, you're going to rip through your jeans.

He gently clasps your fingers and begins to lead you from the room, and you comply, dumbstruck.

You officially have no idea what's going on anymore, and you're still kind of sure he's in a strange state of his breakdown but god _damn_ you want to touch him _so badly_ and you really hope you're not wrong in thinking that's where this is headed.

He ushers you into his armchair at the desk as his hand trails away from yours to motion toward your clothes.

"Get rid of all that shit," he murmurs, "you'll be more comfortable."

Your mouth falls open slightly before you catch it and swallow hard.  "S…ir?"

He reaches past you to pick up the volume of fairy tales and leaves you at the desk, moving toward the bed.  His hips sway just enough for you to get hypnotized by the motion as if you were watching a pendulum.  He drops the book on the comforter, and it sinks in like dropping a rock in water.  His fingers grip the hem of his shirt.

"When you're ready," he calls over his shoulder, "come join me."

He pulls the shirt over his head in a motion so smooth you couldn't imitate it if you tried and lets it fall.  You don't see how it lands or where because your entire world has narrowed to the sight of his back, the curvature of his waist, the sharp triangles of his shoulders, the ripples of muscle over his ribs, the dimples just above the waistband of his criminally form-fitting underwear.  He stretches, popping his spine, and shifts his weight to one hip, bunching up one cheek of his ass so beautifully you swear you could touch it from here.  The desire to find out how supple his underwear is and tear it off him is so strong, you're only halted by remembering you'd kill yourself falling over your half-removed harness, and on the heels of that realization is the notion, sinking in at last, that he's asked you to undress and get in bed with him.

You're so eager and terrified, you can't do anything but watch as he takes the book up, throws back the comforter, and slides in.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eren I know you're fifteen but for the love of freckled Jesus, your sex drive is making it very difficult for me to keep the plot proceeding in a timely fashion.
> 
> Fanart from [allthegaynessinme](http://allthegaynessinme.tumblr.com/post/71019736342), a rather fitting url for the circumstance.
> 
> The laugh I envision for Levi is actually his CV's laugh, which can be heard [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EasUQtfCzOU).

You aren't sure how far he'll allow you to strip, so you remove your boots and harness, leaving them beside the desk, and pull your shirt off.  He doesn't react, too busy propping his pillows into a wall behind himself, so you shimmy out of your jeans.  With nothing containing the shape of your erection, it pitches a sail so blatant you're sure you could go boating with it, and you bury your beet red face in your palms.

When the literal _hell_ did you start craving him so badly?  You know you didn't upon arrival, and you're pretty sure you didn't last night, but this morning… you definitely did this morning.  You'd wanted to spin him around and pull off his cravat with your teeth and rake nails down his back until he saw stars.  You guess it's a matter of getting more comfortable with him, getting closer to him, amplifying your latent attraction — certainly now, more than ever, the thought of his hands on you sets fire to your skin.

And of course, none of these thoughts are doing anything to alleviate your straining erection.

He clears his throat, and you hear the rustle of pages as he finds where you'd left off yesterday.

You'd thought being strung up ass-first and left to dangle two days into your training was the most embarrassing experience of your life, but if someone had told you without room for doubt that in three years' time you'd be touting a diamond-hard boner in the office of your lifelong hero while he waited for your company in his bed, you would have gladly dangled by the crotch of your deficient equipment and sung folk tunes until you were blue in the face.  You can't possibly approach him near-naked in bed with your underwear waving a white flag of arousal.  No, nope, a billion times no, negative, not happening.

You have no idea how to broach this subject, so you opt for honesty.

"Sir…?"

You can't tell if the trace of irritation in his voice is real or imagined.  "What is it, Eren."

"I, uh…"  You don't want to look at him, so you toy with the inkwell in the corner of the blotter, spinning it in place.  "I kind of have a, uh… problem."

"Amazingly enough, I'd noticed," he drawls, finding his place at last and setting the book on his knees atop the comforter.  "Will it die down painlessly if you ignore it, or do you need to jack off in the sink?"

At the abrupt phrasing, your face burns so dark you get a bit dizzy, and you splutter for a response.  You're pretty sure your eyes are about to pop out of your skull.

"Calm down," he mutters, "holy shit, no shame in it.  Not like I've never been interrupted in lecture by a sudden painfully hard dick.  You think the jeans are too tight now, wait 'til your thighs get as thick as mine.  All that pressure causes some serious genital bullshit."  You cannot stop the darting of your eyes to his covered waist, and he straightens a wrinkle in the blanket.  "If you're gonna do it, move the cravat.  That's a stain that will never fucking come out."

You wouldn't dream of masturbating over his clothing, or in his presence in general, and the implication alone makes you want to curl up in a ball and sink through the floor.  You've rarely had time to do it at all, being too self-conscious to touch yourself in the barracks and having only five minutes to shower for the past three years, and while you've figured out enough to know what you're doing, you have zero desire to let him find out how inexperienced you are.  You shake your head until the lump of panic in your throat dissolves and you're able to squeak, "It'll go away."

"Then it's not a problem, and you can march your ass over here."

You let out a whine, but you stand, attempting to tuck your junk as ergonomically as you can in your briefs.  It doesn't want to cooperate, and you're standing at the unoccupied side of his bed by the time you give up and let it sit how it wants, which entails pointing directly at him like the needle of a compass.

He snorts, and you glance up to see his eyes screwed shut with laughter that gives way in bursts of snickering.

You give a loud false laugh and cry "hilarious," and this makes him laugh outright, a high bubbling sound that ripples from his wide mouth in the second before he covers it.  For a moment, all you can do is blink at him, his animated giggles so disjointed from his dour demeanor that you don't know how to process it.

He calms himself and folds the cover down, patting the sheets beside his bare leg.

You're still frozen, but not from shame or confusion.  The sparse black hairs of his shins climb a path up his quads like the ivy that clings to the castle, and you're crushed with the desire to run your fingernails through them to where they disappear under the bands of his underwear.  There's a thin trail from his navel to his waistband, but the rest of his body is bare and smooth.  You burn to know what his stomach tastes like.

"Come on," he says, as though coaxing a small child into a bath.  "I don't have all night."

You put a knee on the mattress, but you hesitate to do more, and with a heavy roll of his eyes and a mutter of "Christ," he reaches for your hand, nearly pulling himself off balance to tug you onto the bed.  You yield, crawling over the sheets and sliding under the thick red comforter, and you pull it up to your armpits, hugging your knees to your chest, centered resolutely on your half of the bed and refusing to budge any closer.  You don't trust what you'd do, and you don't trust that he's gotten over his freakout; you'd almost forgotten that only a matter of minutes ago, you'd walked in on him throwing things and screaming, and while you're dying to straddle him and lick a line up his chest, this is really not the time if ever there was one, and you should be much more concerned with what the hell had him upset in the first place.

He stares at you with one eyebrow raised, repositioning the book on his lap.  "And you can see the pages from over there, Eagle Eyes?"

The irritation in his voice is mounting, and you decide you'd better just comply to what he wants rather than risk aggravating him in his strange fragile state.  You scoot toward him until your hip brushes the cloth of his boxer briefs, and you tense as if you're about to get an injection.

His arm is around you, palm on your shoulder, and it rips a gasp from you, " _Shit_ your hands are like _ice_ ," before he's dragged you backwards into the pillow wall and hugged you against his side.

He pats your arm.  "Comfy?"

You nod, staring unseeingly at the book on his lap.

He jostles you and chuckles.  "You're fucking adorable when you're flustered."

Slowly, you raise your stare to his face, only getting distracted by his stomach for a moment in passing.  His expression is devious, and you suddenly understand that he _has_ been doing it deliberately all day just to fuck with you, just to watch you trip over your own heels with bashful agitation.  You're shocked to find that he would be so playful as that, and at the same time, ashamed and hurt that all the touching and undressing has purely been to mess with you, as if you're a toy that can be wound up and let loose to spin around the room.

You kind of want to jab your elbow into his ribs.

So you do, and you call him an asshole, and he laughs and ruffles your hair, hugging you closer.  You aren't sure whether to roll with it, or to shove him off you.

You want to be close to him.  You want it so badly it's a physical ache, and to know he's only been screwing with your head makes you feel like you might hate him a little.

He rests his cheek on your shoulder, and your heart goes still.

Perhaps you're overreacting.  He's trusted you enough, likes you enough, to let you in on this moment, and despite that he's told you he's partial to touching, you've never seen him initiate with anyone but you, let alone on this level.  His neuroses wouldn't allow him to break his own rules just to give you a hard time, would they?  And from what you've seen, no one else would so much as entertain fantasies of swearing at him, but he's rewarding you for it with hugs.  Maybe teasing you _is_ his way of getting closer to you?

He rights his head, finding his place on the page, and starts to ask you about reading pace, but you cut in.

"Are you okay, sir?"

His blink takes his face from contentment to confusion.  "Yeah?"

"It's just…" You twist to face him better, and his hand slips from your shoulder to your back, scratching a gentle pattern over your shoulder blade.  "You were having like… a serious royal freakout, and now you're suddenly fine?  I know you said you're cool with touching and stuff but this isn't just _touching_ this is like _underwear snuggling in bed_ and I just…"

"You've never snuggled in your underwear before?"

"No!  Are… does this mean nothing to you?"  You realize your phrasing a moment too late, and you stammer, "I mean like, do you just routinely strip down and cuddle up with people?  Or—"

"If I didn't know better, Eren, I'd say you sound pretty jealous."

"Stop!  Okay!  Can you just… take this seriously for one second!"  You meet his gaze, and his countenance is on the line between sympathy and guilt.  "I'm really worried about you here, sir."

His hand migrates to pet the back of your neck with his knuckles.  "Don't be.  I'm fine."

"Are you?  I mean… you don't have to tell me what's bothering you, obviously, but…"  You really, really want him to tell you, but you're not going to force him, and there's not much more you can do.  You twist the hem of the comforter in your lap.  "I'm here, okay?"

He sighs.  "I know."  He strokes the edge of your ear, and you wince from the tickle.  "I know you are."  He looks back to the page, then closes the book on his finger, staring at the binding as he speaks.  "I've been experiencing a, ah… conflict of interest.  And it's been quite frustrating."

You wait for more, but that seems to be it.  Glad to have gotten any response, however vague, you give in to the temptation to touch him, sliding an arm behind his back and tracing the curve of his waist.  He sucks in a deep breath, and you almost stop, but he goes on.

"The anger comes from a combination of knowing I'm an awful enough person to want what I do in the first place, and from… being perfectly aware that I already know what I'm going to do about it, and it's… not the responsible or prudent course of action.  So at this point, it's simply a matter of waiting for my rapidly crumbling resolve to give out."  He leans his head on your shoulder again, and you bump your forehead against his crown.  His chuckle sounds defeated.  "How fucking shitty a person am I to know what I want isn't the right choice, yet still be determined to do it anyway."

In the light of this emission, you feel all of about two centimeters tall, because wow, are you ever selfish.  Here you'd been thinking that the weight of the world rested solely on your shoulders, that humanity depends on you and you alone for survival, that you have to control yourself by yourself and despite training and instruction, it all rides on you.  Here you'd been resenting that amount of responsibility and begrudging having been burdened with such a duty at so young and dumb a stage in your life, never thinking that someone else, anyone else, around you might have it worse.

You're Humanity's Last Hope.

You're not Humanity's Strongest Soldier.

And because of that reputation, he _has to be_ strong at all times, never faltering or wavering, never showing weakness or emotion.  He has to be whoever Erwin tells him to be, never allowed to eschew the sadistic criminal character he had once been, forced every moment to relive those actions again and again.  By default, then, since he took responsibility for you and your success, everything you do is a reflection of him.  If you fail, he fails.  If you're weak, he's weak.  If you can't be the promised boon to humanity, you make a fool of him, and you discredit his reputation completely, destroying the persona he's been forced against his will to uphold and make it all for nothing.  If you fall out of line, you could die, yes, but that's all the more you'd have to care about it; he's the one who would have to live with the knowledge that one slip-up he couldn't control meant he'd gotten you killed.

And you know, after today, that he doesn't want you to die.

You slide down on the mattress, hugging your arms around his waist, and nestle your cheek into the joint of his shoulder.  "I think you're being too hard on yourself."

He rests his chin on your head, and his voice vibrates through the bones as he says, "Yeah, how?"

You huddle closer, bumping one of your knees over his shin.  "You're judging yourself based on who you used to be, all the things you've done.  But even though you are who you are because of those things, yeah, you're not defined by them.  You made mistakes so you can learn from them, not hold yourself to them as the standard for how good a person you're able to be."

He chuckles.  "So Petra did tell you about my thug life."

You nod against his chest, and he hugs your shoulders.  "But that's not you anymore.  The person I know would never hurt someone willingly, would never do anything to put someone in harm's way, and would apparently dwell on faults and shortcomings to the point of punching desks.  The person I know would hate being thought of as heartless and cruel.  And honestly, after I-don't-know-how-many years of living like that, always on edge and always afraid, and now being forced to be Erwin's guard dog all the time… I'm inclined to think you deserve a break of just getting some self-indulgence for a change."

His body has tensed under your hands, and he murmurs, "This is gonna sound mean, but you're a lot more astute than I gave you credit for."

You chuckle though your nose.  "Not mean at all, I'm a kid, I'm not supposed to be astute."

"That's not fair.  You're not defined by your age any more than I'm defined by my mistakes."

You give his waist a squeeze.  "Give yourself a present, sir.  Whatever you want, provided it doesn't hurt anyone — and I'm sure it won't — go for it."

His hand falters while rubbing your back.  "Sounds like you're really in favor of this, then."

"Yeah, of course.  You may not have time to be concerned with your happiness in the middle of all the other shit you have to worry about, but I do.  I really want you to be happy.  I don't want you to turn into a mindless drone who forgets what he's fighting for."

His sigh is light, but long, and it draws out for the whole time that he shifts his weight from his chin to his cheek on your head, and his hand trails from your back down your arm and slips under your elbow, tracing a circle on the bend of your waist.  For a moment, he simply sits there like that with you, letting you hold him and breathing into your hair.

Then he murmurs, "I don't, by the way."  You're not sure what could have prompted him to say that, but he elaborates, "I don't make a habit of bringing other people into my room, let alone my bed.  You're the first in… I don't even remember how long.  Maybe ever."

It's as if he's reached into your chest and poked your heart, and you haven't the foggiest idea how to respond to this.  You can't quite catch your breath.  "Sir… I didn—"

"Doesn't have to mean I wanna marry you, it's more that I'm… comfortable with you.  More than I've ever been with anyone."

You hug yourself around his side and hook your heel under his ankle.  You aren't sure why, but this feels an awful lot like a confession.  You can feel your face heating up.  "I'm comfortable with you, too."

He pets your waist, his fingernails occasionally contacting your waistband, and he mutters, "Glad to see your dick calmed down at last."

You hadn't really noticed in the thick of fussing over his well-being, but damn, you are too.  You allow yourself a relieved giggle.

He draws a breath and holds it, fidgeting with the book and the covers and the pillows, and you wait, almost ready to prompt him when he finally speaks.

"A merchant, who had three daughters," he murmurs into your hair, "once was setting out upon a journey; but before he went, he asked each daughter what gift he should bring back for her."  He's not reading at the slowed pace he was yesterday, not waiting for you to catch up and follow along, just reading to you.  You smile into his chest and close your eyes, lulled by his soft voice and his heartbeat in your ear.

He reads something about a lion, and you want to ask whether the lion is the cat that has a mane or not, but the question doesn't actually make it out of your mouth.

You hear a faint buzzing, and you think it might be labored breathing, someone snoring in the distance, but you aren't sure and the thought flits away as easily as it had come.

His voice fades.

You aren't conscious of the candlelight disappearing or the change in angle of your spine or the adjusted placement of pillows, but you aren't bothered enough by these things to register them anyway.  You snuggle closer to the source of warmth beneath and beside you, fingers curling over his collarbone, wrapping your legs around his and burying your nose in the crook of his neck.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, time to give this puppy a rating!
> 
> Because Eren is a teenage boy and... well, when the suggestion has been made and the opportunity presents itself...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More fanart from [hitchhikerwithoutguide](http://hitchhikerwithoutguide.tumblr.com/post/67261261800)~
> 
> Sorry again for the mini-hiatus; I hope this chapter has been worth the wait. I had a ton of fun at Youmacon, and my friend [Hayley](http://ninfia.tumblr.com) graciously photographed an exceedingly self-indulgent [photo](http://mitsumurata.tumblr.com/post/66153132147) [shoot](http://mitsumurata.tumblr.com/post/66157434580) [series](http://mitsumurata.tumblr.com/post/66234473998) around the con featuring my mother's Grimm compendium and [Kale](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PresquePommes) as Eren, so I hope you guys enjoy those!
> 
> Also, you should follow [ask-irl-erenjaeger](http://ask-irl-erenjaeger) — I met them at the con and they're super cute and sometimes they [cosplay](http://ask-irl-erenjaeger.tumblr.com/post/64755071987) [things](http://ask-irl-erenjaeger.tumblr.com/post/65977323919) based on this fic and I tend to shriek out loud it's kind of embarrassing oh no i'm secretly a huge ninny don't even look at me

You're warm, almost too warm for comfort.  You blame the arc of sunlight that falls upon your back, leaving a glow behind your eyes, and not the plush comforter that swathes you to the ears or the satin-smooth body that lies pliant in your arms, radiating heat.  The soft neck under your nose smells like cotton and warmth and floral tea.

Your fingers splay against the skin they hold, appreciating the firmness of the muscles and the way they give under pressure, and the body responds, muscles stretching and flexing, ribcage shivering with the force of a yawn.  Small, sculpted arms wrap around you, fine forearm hairs dragging across your shoulder blades like a cat rubbing the leg of a chair.  You respond with a contented hum and nuzzle your nose closer to his throat.

It buzzes with his voice.

"Can I take the end of the snoring to mean you're awake?"

You sigh, a smile curving your mouth, and arch your back in a stretch.  "Do I really snore?"

He nods, his jaw moving your hair.  There's a smile in his voice.  "Something awful."

"Shit," you grunt, the stretch migrating to your arms, "sorry."

"S'okay," he yawns again.  "S'not actually that loud, 'm just fucking with you."  His arms tighten around you, and your fingers slip from under his body to grip the curves of his waist, despite the awkward angle.  "It's surprisingly consolatory."

You give up, one arm sliding down to cup the crest of his hip, the other curling under your chest.  "It's what?"

He slips a hand into your hair, carding through your bedhead.  "Soothing to a troubled mind."

"Oh."

"Reminds me you're here."

You rub a thumb over the crease of muscle that connects his hip to his waistband and crinkle your brow.  What a strange thing to say.  "F'course I'm here."

He chuckles.  "Of course."

The tone is half sardonic and half affectionate, and at first your sleepy mind is content to dwell on the affection, but after a moment, the irony occurs to you.  Does he not expect you to be here?

Wait… why do _you_ expect you to be here?

…holy shit why _are_ you here?

Your eyes pop open, body tensing like a finger on a trigger, and he murmurs, "Is it time at last for the inevitable panic attack?"

Your body attempts to shoot bolt upright but his arms are there, keeping you locked to his chest, and he's shushing you even though you aren't saying anything.  You grapple with the sheets, fumbling for a handhold to push yourself up through his murmured reassurances that you're fine, everything's fine, holy shit calm down.  Eventually, you cave, and you lie against his chest, attempting to regain control of your breathing.  The walls are way too bright and starting to spin.

"Why am I here?"

He pets your hair idly, the way you toy with your shirt laces.  "You crashed out pretty much instantaneously.  I figured your chances of self-harming and forming a concrete goal in your sleep were zero, and I didn't feel like moving your lazy ass, so I thought what the hell, no harm leaving you alone for just one night.  Don't get used to it; I don't deal well with clingy teenagers or noise pollution."

Your respiration refuses to fall back under your control, and you feel like you're breathing through a straw.  "Won't anyone…?"

"Find out?" he supplies when you run out of air.  "No, I have the only key, dumbass.  No one is stupid enough to go looking for you pointlessly when as far as they know, you're stuck in your cell."  His fingers still comb through your hair, but your scalp is starting to go numb, your cheeks already tingling.  "It's not that big a deal.  I won't tell if you don't."

You want to say you have no intention of ever mentioning this to anyone, but your pulse is fluttering on your throat so hard you can't get words out.  You believe him, that he hasn't made choices he didn't thoroughly plan out beforehand and he won't let anything ill come from them, but your heart is racing anyway, making you breathe so fast you're having trouble remembering which way is up.

At last, he seems to realize your distress, and his hand pauses its memorization of your hair.  "Holy shit Eren, I didn't mean break down and have an _actual panic attack_ , Jesus dicking Christ.  Breathe."

You assure him you'll be okay and you don't know why this is happening, but you're winded, and it comes out slurred and broken.  He doesn't press you, doesn't mock you, but silently strokes your hair, letting you calm yourself and clutch his waist in sporadic fleeting seizures.  You watch the beam of sunlight slide down the wall over the course of a few minutes as your heart slows, breathing relaxes, muscles unclench.

"Feel better?"

You nod, still catching your breath through a windpipe that feels bruised.  "Not sure what happened there," you admit in an embarrassed titter.

"You woke up into a situation that alarmed you.  Not incongruous for your fight-or-flight response to kick in, happened to me a ton of times when I was younger.  Better not do that shit around the others, though.  You're jumpy enough, we don't need you hyperventilating in front of Auruo and his trigger-happy temperament.  Likely to get somebody killed."

You give a short laugh, but it comes out less amused than you are because it's breathy and toneless.

He removes an arm from around your shoulders to reach for something that jingles on the nightstand.  "We've still got about half an hour before the hot water comes on.  I'm kinda planning for you to get cleaned up in my washroom while I get you some clothes.  And since you're careless and sloppy as hell, you should be done by the time I get back, and I'll still have plenty of hot water to take my dear sweet time with.  Really revel in how much I love it."

You chuckle.  "Romance that hot water."

"Wine it and dine it."

You snuggle closer to him, regaining the space you'd lost during your freakout, and nestle your head under his chin.  You're a hard thought away from murmuring _I'd wine and dine you_ , but you're not nearly that stupid.  You swallow the thought away.  "Captain, how the hell do you always know what time it is and what chores I have?"

"Because I have a watch—" the jingling sound emanates from the nightstand once more, and you infer this to be the thing he's playing with "—and I schedule the task list."

"Oh."

His arm returns to hug your shoulders again, fingernails still lightly scratching over the back of your head.  You slip an arm under his back, letting your free hand carefully trace the muscles of his chest and stomach.  His flesh ripples when you occasionally tickle him, but he allows you to touch him as he pets you, forgetting for a moment that you're both only in your underwear and that you've just spent the night curled up with him in his bed.  You think you're beginning to understand what he means by casual underwear snuggles; there's no pressure right now, no latent obligation to get closer or feel more or act upon anything, just his body and yours and comfortable warmth with a soundtrack of waking robins in the woods outside.

How did you break down so many of his walls and get so close to him in only a few days?

How many days has it even been?

The first two days blend together for you because you didn't sleep, but you suppose it's the morning of your fourth full day at the castle, having arrived on day zero.  You've heard murmurs during meals that the 104th had been held back and interrogated one by one to determine their involvement in the killing of the test subject titans, and you imagine this delayed the induction ceremonies by a few days, on top of the extant delay caused by the breach in Trost.  From the trainee insignia on Mikasa and Armin's uniforms, you'd taken to understand it hadn't happened yet at the time of the tribunal, and you've inferred from the lack of new arrivals that it still has yet to occur.

"The disbanding of the 104th is soon, isn't it?"

"Mm, tonight."  His fingers hesitate in their tracks through your hair.  "Did you want to go?"

His words are light, but there's a strangeness behind his tone, as if his question is a test.  "Well, I… I'd like to.  I mean, I should, right?"  Your fingers trace his sternum, pressing through the muscles to find the joints to the ribs, plainly visible on you but shielded by layers of thick defensive tissue in the captain.  He says nothing.  "My family is in there, and all the guys I've trained with for the past three years.  We've fought together in combat before we'd even had the chance to get recruited to different branches."

Levi's chin rubs your scalp as he nods.  "Lot of history there."

"Yeah, exactly.  Who knows when I'll see them again, if ever?"

"Good question."

His words are hollow, sympathetic but not empathetic, and you take it to mean that he never had anyone in his trainee squad to whom he had grown particularly connected.  Given what scarce foggy bits of his history you know, perhaps he didn't even have a trainee squad and had been conscripted directly into Erwin's supervision.  You slide your bent leg down both of his, cherishing the way your calf is molded by the unyielding bumps of his kneecaps, and you aren't sure how to tell him leaving his side isn't something you want without sounding creepy or overstepping a boundary.  "But… I wouldn't want to neglect my duties here, sir.  So I'll leave it to you to decide."

He hums contemplatively, the vibrations buzzing in your cheek.  "We'll see what happens."

This answer does nothing to satisfy you, nor does it allay your worries of being pulled from his side.  You tweak his waist, hoping to garner a reaction out of him if you push for one.  "What if you came with me?"

"Seriously?"  You nod against his chest.  "Why would you want me to do that?"

You shrug as best you can, fishing for an excuse.  "So you can, like… keep an eye on me or whatever, right?"

He snorts.  "Nice try, kid, but I've got shit to do here."

"Like what?"

He tenses with indignation, but your tone isn't challenging, just curious, and he stops himself with a sigh.  "Like super secret officer stuff I'm not allowed to tell you."

You make a noise of disappointment, and he laughs at you.  You crave for him to understand your feelings, to respond in kind, and you nestle tighter, your front melding to the curve of his side.  "Well… what if you ditch, and I do a big favor for you in return?"

His hand falters in your hair, and his voice drops low, as if afraid someone will hear you through the walls.  "What sort of favor do you have in mind?"

Your heart is in your throat.  You have no idea how to make your voice appealing, having never had cause to try, but you think a whisper should work, your fingertip drawing a feather-light circle around the crest of his hip.  "Depends on what you want."

His fingers have frozen, his shoulders going stiff under you.  "This is rapidly venturing into rather inappropriate territory."

You snicker, the bubbling anxiety making your voice shake.  "I said it's what _you_ want.  If you want it to be inappropriate, that's on you."

"You've certainly regained your nerve quickly, haven't you," he mutters, and you giggle, attempting to find a ticklish spot on his waist with itchy fingers.  His stomach clenches when you hit the right one, and you press further, making him seize your wrist and drag it up to his shoulder.  You try to tickle the hollow above his collarbone, but he pinches your hand to his shoulder with his cheek.  "Little shit."

You laugh that you're done, you swear you're done, promise, and he lets go, slipping his arm under yours to hug you around the ribs.

You wonder why he's touching you so much.

Not that it's bothering you — after last night, you've reached the conclusion that he hasn't snapped from rage to catharsis and that your company has quelled his frustration enough for him to show he genuinely is partial to physical contact, despite how closed-off he seems — but you're also acutely aware that he's unusually strict and stingy about cleanliness, so you aren't sure why he would pick you, the grimy farm boy, to snuggle up with.  How have you earned it?

You remember his remark that led you to believe he's only flirting with you to screw with your head, and though you still don't believe he's capable of throwing his compulsions aside to see that through, you can't help but wonder if he's able to push the boundaries just a little.

You press your mouth into the pulse under his chin and blow a raspberry.

He jumps like he's stepped on a nail, scrambling in vain to twist out of your grip, and you laugh and hold him fast, your arms around his waist and shoulders affording you the advantageous position, and he stops struggling once he sees it's useless.  He cuffs the back of your head and snaps something, but you don't catch it through your laughter as you settle back into place around his side.

"You're so cute when you're flustered," you crow, and he pinches the flesh under your arm hard enough that you cry out amid giggles.  You rub your nose over his skin.  "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm done."

"You know what, I don't believe you anymore."

You whine his title, drawing it out into a song, and he grunts.  You reach around his jaw to tickle his ear and miss, your fingers sliding over the side of his head.  The buzzed portion of his hair feels like velvet, and for a moment, caught off-guard and fascinated, you run your fingers through it repeatedly in silent wonder.

He arrests you with a chuckle.  "You okay there?"

"Yeah," you murmur, "yeah, it just… feels awesome."

"You are far too easily amused for your own good," he mutters, tugging the abused comforter back up to your neck.  "One of these days you're gonna get killed because you got distracted petting a tree or some shit."

"No," you huff, "it's different in combat.  I'm remarkably focused when I've honed in on something I want."

"Like you are now?"

You hadn't intended your words that way, but you suppose you've betrayed yourself.  Although your cheek heats up against his shoulder and a grin twitches at your lips, you mumble, "Maybe."

He throws the comforter over your head, and you laugh through him saying, "Oh shut up."

You poke your head back out, nuzzling your nose under his ear, and whisper, "Make me."

"You're a little asshole and I'm gonna kick you in the spleen."

You're compelled to pinch him on the nipple, but you refrain for the moment.  Perhaps if he earns one, you'll permit yourself to do it.  "Make it an even twenty kicks?"

He stiffens under you, his hands tight on the joints of your shoulders.  "Keeping count?"

His voice has gone cold and hard, and after a moment of wondering why, you realize it's guilt.  You've brought up something that remains as painful for him as it was for you at the time, and though you've gotten past it, he hasn't.  He still has to look at that incident and chew himself up for it.  You attempt to make light of it and turn the conversation toward humor.  "Would it be creepy if I said yes, I counted every time any part of you touched my face?"

You want him to laugh, but he draws in a sharp breath through his nose.  "No, it would make me feel like a stale rotting piece of shit."

"Oh," you murmur, "then no, no one's keeping count, don't be silly.  That's silly.  You're silly."

He pinches your cheek like a grandparent, but he remains stiff and silent, and with your stomach doing acrobatic flips, you gently lay a kiss on the pulse you raspberried a moment ago.  The band of muscle in his neck flexes at first, then slacks, and his whole body softens with it.

"I'm kidding, you know, it's okay," you breathe.  "I know you didn't want to, and I don't hold it against you.  You can pull the plug out of your butt now."

His arms squeeze you against him, and you can hear the rolling of his eyes in his voice as he mutters, "Thank you, I'll do my best."  You release a tension between your shoulders that you didn't realize you'd been holding when his fingers go back to combing your hair.

He holds you like that in silence, stroking your hair so gently you wish you could start purring, until a tightness begins to swell between your legs.  You'd readily ignore it, but you know he can feel it against his hip, and you groan, shuffling your hips back from him with a cry of "Really?  Again?"

He chuckles.  "You're a guy, it's early morning, it happens.  I've got one too."

Your face heats so fast it's like someone striking a flint.  "Seriously?"  How had you not known?  It must be that the two of you are situated such that your legs haven't come across it yet.

Ignoring your question, he picks up the brass pocket watch from the nightstand and muses that the hot water should come on in a few minutes.  "I'm gonna get you some clothes, you get washed up and… take care of that if you have to, I guess."

That's the second time he's suggested you jerk yourself off in less than twelve hours, and while you don't quite know what to think of him bringing up the topic of masturbation so frequently, you're pretty sure you're not averse to the idea of him pondering over you doing it.  "If you don't mind, I might just do that in the shower."

He shrugs, moving his arms from you and starting to sit up, and you move with him, reluctantly letting your limbs slip from the soft warmth of his body as he stretches out his own.  "Just don't get any of it on the shower walls, for fuck's sake.  My shower is my sanctuary and I'm not dealing with that."

You watch his face as he speaks, but he doesn't blush or make weird faces, and this sort of disappoints you.  You'd wanted to see him get agitated over having his thoughts probed, and in his absence of reaction, you suspect this is actually a normal topic of conversation for him.  Sighing, you crawl forward, slumping onto your belly on the comforter and burying your face in it, savoring the sweet earthy scent.  You wonder if everything about him smells like tea.

"Oi, no, get up."  The snap of his palm on your clothed ass makes you yip like a small dog with surprise, and he talks right through you.  "I'm not fucking up the timing here, you get in that washroom or I'll throw you out into the hall and you can carry on as usual by yourself."

"Okay," you gripe, "okay, jeez."  You pick yourself up — damn, you hadn't realized how heavy your limbs are with sleep — and trudge directly into the bathroom, closing the door behind you.  You aren't sure what he's going to wear to retrieve your clean clothes, but you get the feeling he wouldn't want you to watch him put it on, despite your cuddling and… apparently, spanking.  Your face in his mirror goes dark red.

So… spanking is a thing you're doing now?

You strip off your underwear and step into the shower before you can wind yourself any tighter over it.

The circular stall is fully encased in glass, and it feels like you're a microorganism in a test tube.  The water dial takes a bit of examination to figure out, but once you get steaming water pouring like rain from the shower head, you move on to the task of figuring out which soap bars and squirt bottles are meant for which parts of the body.  You want to try shouting out to him, but that would mean having him confront you in your wet and naked state, and you suspect he'd be as reluctant to approach you this way as he would to have you do the same to him.  You're not even sure if he's still out there; you didn't hear the bedroom door open, but the hiss of the water makes for difficulty hearing much of anything.

Experimental sniffing proves the soaps all smell the same to you, like the malty black tea he chugs down every morning.

You wonder if there will ever come a time that you get used to the smell of his tea.

You certainly hope not.

Lying by his side this morning, and falling asleep with your face nestled in his skin last night, the scent of his body had clung to you and centered you amid all the frustration and worry, calmed you after the panic attack you still can't believe you were dumb enough to have, kept you peaceful and content.  He smells warm and rich and beautiful, as beautiful as the polished softness of his skin and the ivy vines of scant hairs climbing his appendages, as delicate as the hooded creases of his eyelids and the tiny white hairs on his paper-thin earlobes, and as immortal as the twists of his collarbones and the spindly length of his fingers.

You want those fingers to touch you.

You don't care where, you just want to feel them on you — tracing the meager lines of your abdominals, drawing paths between your ribs, twirling rosettes into your hair and pulling your face toward his.

You want to know if his mouth is as soft as his throat.

You want to feel it press into yours, to breathe him in as he breaks you down piece by piece with his lips molding yours like bubblegum, to let his tongue slip between your teeth.  You want to know if he tastes as good as he smells, the supple warmth of his muscles heating your body as his fingers trail down from your shoulders to follow the lines of your hips.

Someone's hands are touching you, tickling nails over the soft spots inside your thighs, wrapping gently around your length and sliding against it.  The water creates a polarizing friction that makes for paradoxically slippery resistance, and _God_ , you want him to touch you.

The hand upon you moves just slowly enough to toe the line of torture, and you shove aside all other thought about the water trickling into your palm and the tiles under your feet and even the directionality of gravity, convincing yourself you're still lying warm in his bed and it's him touching you, his agile fingers sliding over your hardened flesh and drawing gasps and shivers from you, that his naked body is hunched above yours and his soft mouth is burning brands into your jaw and throat.

A sound is ripped from you, pulled straight out of your lungs and bypassing all barriers that could halt and change it, a carnal sound caught between groan and scream.

He likes this sound.

The movement quickens, fingers tighten, attempting to do everything in his power to pull that sound from you again and again, and he succeeds, and you swear you can feel his chuckle vibrating from his mouth on your throat all the way up your veins at your gasp of recognition that you aren't going to last.

A few quick, harsh pumps of the hand are all it takes for you to come undone, and you brace yourself against the wall in front of you, moaning your release in stutters.  You feel as though you could jump out the window and soar away, fly far beyond the walls and the titans and find the rivers of fire water that Armin talks about, and you'd take Levi with you, build a new home and a new life where no one can touch you and no one can harm you, where the ugly red stains of your pasts can be wiped clean with his hands and the fields of snow as endless and white as the euphoria that bursts from you in ribbons.

Only when you've tapped yourself empty and your high begins to fade do you remember his strict instruction to keep the shower walls clean.

Your stomach swoops with sudden fear, but a quick survey shows it to have all landed on the floor and be currently swirling around the drain.

Your face scrunches a bit at the knowledge that you can't actually reach sexual climax without making a huge fucking mess of bodily fluids.

Immediately, you worry if this would be a problem for Levi.  Almost as immediately, you mentally kick yourself for stringing yourself along with the idea that he'd even consider a sexual relationship with you.

A fist rapping on the door startles you back into your surroundings, and you call, "What?"

"You done in there yet?"

You suspect he would discern the lie very quickly if you said you were.  "I can't figure out which soap is for which body part."

"They're labelled," he snaps, and you turn the bottles around to find that oh, so they are, and you're an idiot.  "What the hell have you been doing in there, playing with yourself?"

Your face is so hot the shower feels lukewarm, but your boldness from this morning has not abated, spurred on by the embarrassment.  "Yes."

"Good Christ, hurry the fuck up if you don't want me jumping in there with you."

You'd started to go soft post-orgasm, but the proposition has your dick thinking about perking back up to attention.  "So what if you did?  I'm used to group showers, dingdong."

"Shut the fuck up," he mutters, but there's amusement in his tone.  "You have five minutes to get the hell out of my washroom."

"And what if I'm not out in time?" you call after him, but he doesn't respond, and you guess he's moved out of hearing range.  You sigh, resigning that he's not going to join you, and decide you don't care to try to read the labels.  You don't have sufficient time to pick apart some of these consonant clusters, and they all smell the same anyway, what difference could it make?  You scrub yourself everywhere you can remember as rigorously as possible and rinse in record time, attributing your speed to the years of five-minute showers during training.

You shut off the water, and the air that already begins to sink in is so frigid it makes you loath to open the glass door.

You open it anyway and instantly regret it, cupping your retreating crotch as if you can shield it from the cold.

For a moment, you don't even know where the towels are, until you remember the linen cupboard from which you'd gotten the vinegar last night.

You step out to get one just as the washroom door opens.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mike's paradigm is shattered and Hanji is the fandom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanart from [shirii](http://shirii.tumblr.com/post/68514379701)!

"I'm just saying it's your own stupid fault."

"Is not."

"You knew I was naked!"

"Obviously, I didn't."

"Then you're a dumbass, I couldn't possibly have _not_ been naked."

"Incorrect.  You could've had a towel on, I heard the water stop — no stop talking — and you could've kept your hands where they were instead of waving them around like I was going to shoot you.  What the fuck even, Eren, why isn't protecting your dick your first instinct?  Do you _want_ to test whether it'll grow back?"

"That isn't even the point, you goober.  Would it kill you to admit that you misjudged the situation and this is at least a little bit your fault?"

"Yes.  It would literally, instantaneously kill me."

"I'm so sorry you saw my flaccid penis."

"As you should be.  I am forever traumatized.  How will I ever cope so sufficiently as to rejoin with normal society."

"Now you're just being a baby."

Levi flicks a glob of scrambled egg at you, his expression rancorous, and the toe of your boot searches under the table for one of his ankles.  He catches on and kicks at you, but he misses, hitting a leg of your chair instead.  You start to reach toward him, aiming to pluck the knot out of his freshly dried cravat, but Auruo's arm swings out to bar you.  His elbow connects with your sternum and nearly knocks the wind out of you, his other hand whipping out to stop Levi, whose fork is moving toward your sleeve. 

"For shit's sake, it is too goddamn early."

Petra giggles and rubs his shoulder, and he slumps under her touch, silently going back to his own breakfast.  You guess they must have resolved the fight they'd been starting when you'd left to follow Levi last night.  You're curious, but you'll save questions for Petra at a less public moment.

Still petting Auruo's upper arm, she muses, "You're in a fine mood today, Captain."

He grunts wordlessly, and you tease, "As good a mood as a cave troll can get."

"I _will_ smack you," he growls, and you laugh, finding his ankle at last with your toe and rubbing the side of your boot against it.  He rolls his eyes and shifts his legs to let you better reach his feet.

Petra gives a quiet, affectionate laugh, bringing her hands back to her utensils.  "It's an interesting mood, anyway.  You aren't usually so willing to involve yourself in conversation."

"The little shit's goading me," he huffs, but it's a lame excuse and you know it as well as he does, blowing a raspberry at him over your fork.  His eyes widen a touch at the reminder of your mouth on his throat earlier, and you slide your foot up his calf as far as you can without bumping your knee under the table.  You don't miss the look of intensity that flickers behind his eyes for a moment like a candlelight, but you don't know what it means.  You elect to ignore it and carry on with your own meal.

Erd and Gunther are eating as though they could be told to duck and cover at any moment, their eyes continuously flicking toward the captain.  You're sure he detects it, but he makes no sign to indicate that he does.  He'd marched in to breakfast with you in tow — neither of you wearing your harnesses, as he'd deemed them unnecessary — and had quietly taken a seat at their table.  They had all tensed visibly at his approach, but in a subdued and humbled voice anyone but you wouldn't have expected from him, he had apologized for his outburst, calling it inexcusable and offering the explanation that he's had a lot eating at him.  The four of them had been quick to assure him he has nothing to apologize for, but he had insisted until they'd accepted.

You're sure their jumpiness now has nothing at all to do with the way he'd allowed you to reach for his hand across the table and grip it hard during his apology.

You're tempted to reach across the table again, to stab at his plate and steal some of his food, but you've been so boisterous and he's been so tolerant that you don't want to act like a complete piece of shit and take advantage, so you bring your foot back to yourself and settle for making ridiculous faces at him whenever he meets your eyes.  If you can get him to smile when he shakes his head and looks back down at his plate, you consider it a success.

Erd breaks the silence.  "Glad to see everyone seems to be feeling better."  He nods toward Petra.  "You two were getting into it pretty thick.  You doing okay?"

Petra starts to respond, but Auruo cuts in.  "We've had a bit of a miscommunication about what exactly constitutes viability in a lifelong partner."  Out of habit, you look toward him as he talks, and you don't think it's your imagination when you notice his eyes flit toward Levi for a second as he says, "Seems I'm the only one who thinks the key point is emotional availability."

You aren't sure what to make of this implicit accusation, since you've found Levi to be plenty emotionally available to you, and you murmur, "I'd like to think it's not so much a matter of vulnerability as it is a matter of honesty.  Not necessarily that you have to be an open book, but you do have to be able to express what you're feeling.  And part of that is the willingness to share your comfort boundaries before they become an issue."  Levi stares at you with quirked eyebrows, and you tack on, "But this is because I have so much experience with life partners.  Infinite, even."

He notes your sarcasm and chuckles through his mouthful, raising a hand to hide his lips as he chews.  "What if your comfort boundaries are so plentiful and absurd that you're afraid of scaring off the other person with too many rules?"

You shrug.  "The right person wouldn't be bothered.  They'd be happy to accommodate and try to meet your standards, actually.  At least, I'd hope so."

One of his slender eyebrows rises, and he speaks between his fingers.  "What if, were I genuinely interested in a lifelong relationship with someone, I tended to push the limit of their tolerance right off the bat?  Deliberately put them in situations to try to make them snap?"

You get the feeling he's trying to tell you something, but you have no idea what, so you shrug and explain, "Well, I understand the rationality of determining their stamina quickly, so you don't spend a lot of time with someone who ultimately isn't going to last.  And while I guess it's a bit cold and calculating, I really don't think it's a bad idea.  I'd happily subject to such a test, for the right person.  I mean, just personally, I wouldn't be comfortable calling myself much of a lifelong anything if I didn't want to do everything in my power to see my partner fully contented."

Auruo huffs.  "Yeah, tell me about it."

"So you have to be able to admit when you're not comfortable, and not live in fear of the possibility of their ridicule.  You have to trust that they'll help you, and see them as a source of relief, not further stress.  And if you need to test them a bit to be sure they won't buckle under pressure, I don't see how that's a problem."

Levi swallows his mouthful.  "Yeah, but there comes a point where the tap-dance of meeting another person's demands can toe the line of ridiculous.  Like I'm not gonna bend over fucking backwards accommodating someone who refuses to change their socks more than once a week, and I wouldn't ask or expect anyone to spend an hour scrubbing their toes twice a day just to placate me."

"This, coming from the guy who washed his hands for twelve minutes solid this morning."

He jabs his forkful of egg you.  "Only because you washed yours for eleven."

"I just wanted to see how long you would do it if I kept up."

He gives you a strange smile that you suspect ties into whatever he was trying to convey with his oddly specific question.  "Back at you."

You fold your hands and prop your chin on your interlaced fingers.  "Hmm, then I think I did pretty good with your little test, didn't I?"

"Pretty _well_ , Eren."  You stick your tongue out, and he winks over sticking the full fork between his teeth.  Shoving all the egg into one cheek, he adds, "Still can't believe you put foot scrub in your hair."

You start to blush and you direct your humiliation toward your toast, stabbing it into the strawberry preserves on your plate.  "Not my fault everything in the shower smells the same."

"No," he garbles from behind his hand, "but it is your fault that you're more dense than a cannon round."

"Oh for crying out fuckin' loud," Aurou whines, and he stands, taking his and Petra's empty plates with him to the service window.  You and Levi are the only ones who aren't close to done, having playfully argued through most of the meal, and though you've attempted to keep vague the circumstances of the morning and make it sound like Levi walked into the communal shower, you're pretty sure Gunther at least has figured out that you spent the night; he's sharp enough to pick up on the text between the lines, and he keeps giving you a shrewd look that resembles Commander Smith more than you'd care to admit.

As your squad finishes up and you all move through the kitchen to the supply closet, Levi ends up behind you, and in the midst of Erd passing out cleaning supplies — you'd begun to object because hadn't you just cleaned all the common areas four days ago, but Auruo had shut you down hard to sighs from both Petra and the captain — as a broom and duster are pushed into your fists, a hand slips into your back pocket.

Your butt tightens on reflex, but Levi's hand is already retreating, his finger hooking into your belt loop and tugging your hips toward him.  He whispers into the back of your neck, "Something to work on while you work."

You turn to ask him what the hell he's talking about, but he's turned away and is stalking toward the exit.  Your head spins so hard you don't process Erd's further instruction, and only clue back in when they start to leave without you.

_Did he just cop a feel and run?_

Erd doesn't lead the rest of you after the captain up the staircase to the upper quarters, but instead, to the main foyer and the large sweeping stairs that lead to the showers and lecture halls.  As you walk behind them, half paying attention to Auruo and Gunther arguing the difference between thoroughness and precaution, you realize Levi has left something in your pocket.

Erd and Petra get to work unfolding the ladder so as to reach the chandelier, and as surreptitiously as you can, you reach into your pocket and pull out a folded piece of paper.

He's written something on it, and his handwriting is so neat and blocky as to have been typed, but with just a quick glance, you aren't practiced enough yet to read it.  You wrap the note around the handle of your duster and study it while you pretend to work.

Since you do actually have to look productive while you're pretending to work, it takes you longer than you think it should to pick apart each consonant and vowel and string the sounds together.  Before you're finished with the feather dusting, though, you've figured it out:

_Your fly is open._

"God _dammit_ ," you hiss, fixing your zipper.  Auruo catches you and spits laughing.

You tuck the paper back into your pocket and wish there were more notes for you to read.

By the time the five of you have finished the foyer, Petra mopping you all up the stairs and into the first of the lecture halls, it occurs to you to ask where Levi is.

Erd rolls his eyes, Auruo snorts, and Petra blushes.  Gunther is the one to muster up the nerve to say "He's taking a crap."

You raise an eyebrow.  "This whole time?"

"Yeah," Auruo replies, drawing the word out, "it's kinda his morning ritual.  Shower forever, eat quickly, spend an hour on the crapper."

Your brow furrows.  "He didn't do that yesterday."

"And now you know why he was so pissy last night," he drawls, and your chest swells with indignation.  You want to snap that the captain really does have a lot on his mind, that he's struggling with a conflict of interest and it has his hands tied, but it's not your business to tell and it's not your job to defend his actions, so you grit your teeth and turn away, focusing more energy than necessary on dusting the baseboards.  Petra snipes at him for shit-talking their commanding officer and, through his laughter of _shit talking! get it? that's funny,_ she insists with extra fervor that the two of them are nothing alike, and Gunther cuts in to shut them up before they start another shouting match over the mop water bucket.

You're sweeping the dust pile out of the door to collect into the hallway when the captain returns, tin mug of steaming tea in hand, and pokes his head into the room to inspect your work.  Petra, the only one remaining inside and still mopping, greets him with a weary smile.

"I can't believe we still have this whole floor to do," she sighs.

Levi hums in response, but he doesn't sound sympathetic enough to let the lot of you off that easy.  He glances down your pants.  "See you've corrected your little issue there."

"You know quite well how little it isn't."

He nods with a sardonic expression and hands you the dust pan, and you notice another folded slip of paper concealed under his fingers.  You're sure to take them both, giving him a tiny smile as you shift the note into your pocket.

Levi helps you clean the rest of the lecture halls, though with him breathing down your neck and calling you out whenever you slack off, it's a lot harder to read this note without getting caught.  For one, it's longer, but for another, you keep forgetting the bits you've already deciphered and have to keep going back, which you suppose is good for practice and memorization, but ultimately is still pretty frustrating.  You're sure, from his fleeting devious grins, that he's doing it to mess with you again.

You're beginning to think that messing with you is one of his favorite new hobbies.

Eventually — before you're done with the floor, you're proud to say — you discern that the note says _You sleep like a dog and your head smells like feet._

As he moves past you with the broom, you whisper, "At least I don't take an entire hour to shit."

He stops dead in his tracks and turns very slowly to stare at you, and you suddenly feel as though you have crossed a line.  Somewhere between your newfound physical closeness and your coquettish banter, you'd forgotten that he is still in fact your commanding officer, the one charged with controlling you and keeping you alive, and you have absolutely no right to treat him like you would one of your training buddies.  Abruptly, you feel like, despite the displays of kinship, you don't really know him at all.  Your hands are already rising in the "don't shoot" gesture that caused you to flash him a few hours ago, but his glare doesn't fade.

His voice is unfittingly quiet.  "That's personal."

"I'm sorry," you murmur, reaching for his arm closest to you.  No matter his reputation, despite the rank dissonance and the power gap, you _do_ consider yourself far closer to him than anyone else here, and you need to show him more respect than mockery — both as his subordinate, and as his friend.  You pet his bicep in gentle strokes, refusing to be addled by the heat of his stare.  "I didn't know, I'm sorry.  You can explain it to me later if you want, but I get it.  No jokes about that."

His gaze softens, but not into acceptance.  His slender eyebrows wrinkle with confusion.  "You know, for someone so rage-driven and loud, I hadn't figured you'd be so…"  He trails off, shaking his head, and you fully expect him to say _stupid_ or _ignorant_ or _unable to process your basic surroundings_ , so your breath catches in your chest when the word to fall from his lips is "sweet."

You don't know how to respond to that, so you stare at your hands on his sleeve and mumble another "I'm sorry."

His arm shifts, moving your hands, and he reaches to fix the way one of your shirt buttons sits over your stomach.  "I will tell you later.  It's nothing terrible.  I just don't like it being pointed out."

"Oh," you murmur, and this starts a pillar of rage boiling in your gut, remembering how casually the others had teased him for it behind his back.  The pulse in your head is throbbing.

"Ready for lunch?"

You don't trust yourself to speak without turning to roar at your squad, so you just nod.

The two of you arrive in the mess hall before the rest of your squad, having left them to finish the mopping, and you lead the way to the supply closet to replace the dusters and brooms.  Only when you go to open the door do you notice the chart on it depicting chores and days of the week, with squad leaders' names attached to each one in a repeating pattern.  You recognize the impeccably neat handwriting.

At the wash station Levi selects, you resolve to yourself that you're not going to let him outlast you this time.

He does, but the facade of nonchalance he'd constructed during washing promptly crashes with a sigh the moment you fully rinse, and you can tell if you push him just a little further next time, he'll fold.  Maybe.  He's giving you that strange smile from breakfast again as he blots his hands dry, but you have just as little idea what it means now as it did then, and you're starting to feel as though it might be something obvious that you're too shortsighted to piece together.

He sits next to you at lunch, rather than across from you.  This makes it a bit harder to exchange glances and play footsie, but much easier to "accidentally" brush elbows and shoulders.  At least, you're pretty sure it's only accidental on his part, because in all your clandestine peeks in his direction, you never once catch him looking anywhere but at his plate.  You pretend to listen to Major Hanji's shrill and gesticulative diatribe on her past experimentation with limb regrowth, and you pretend to not be ludicrously pleased when Commander Smith nudges Levi to murmur something, and Levi shifts marginally toward you.

He leans his head on your shoulder for a moment, and both Hanji and Smith go still and silent.

Pride welling in your chest, you play it off casually, reaching up to stroke his jaw.  "You okay?"

He nods.  "Tired as hell."

You can't help but feel as though this is your fault, but you can't exactly apologize without giving yourself away, so you say, "Better get to bed earlier today."

"I was in bed plenty early," he insists, "and I think that's the problem."

You don't understand, but you don't have time to, because Smith collects all of your empty plates and announces in a booming tone that anyone wishing to attend the induction ceremonies for the 104th trainee squad needs to get outside and start tacking up.

Hanji leaps from the table and scurries toward the exit.  Levi lifts his head from your shoulder, and you try to ask him with expression alone if he won't change his mind and come with you.

He looks up, but his eyes move past you to lock on someone stepping up behind you.  A glance over your shoulder reveals it to be Gunther, slinging his cloak over his shoulders, and Erd, who politely informs you that the captain asked the two of them to accompany you while the rest of the squad finishes cleaning the common areas.

You look back to Levi in time to see him handing you the key to your own cell.  "You'll need your cloak," he murmurs.  "Getting colder every day."

"Right," you mumble, and as you take the key, you realize he has another slip of paper in his hand.  You hadn't even seen him write this one, so you guess he must have already prepared it, and you slip it into your palm inconspicuously.

Hanji returns with a cloak haphazardly flung around her slender frame, gripping your upper arm and tugging you out of the chair, making it scrape across the floor.  You wish you could tell whether she'd washed her hands.

The four of you head toward the hallway, where Mike and Smith are exiting, and you look over your shoulder at Levi as you go.

He's still sitting there, staring into his empty teacup.

You call out "See you tonight, then!" and he directs his gaze toward you.

From this distance, you aren't sure, but you think he's smiling.

You allow Hanji's continued tirade to distract you as you retrieve your cloak from the basement and move outside into the wind.  Levi is right, it's surprisingly brisk, and you're glad to have taken the side trip.

Whoever mucked out the stables last did a pretty good job, because you aren't nearly as bothered by the dirt and filth levels now as you'd been the night you'd done it.  You're just finishing securing the throat latch when Mike knocks on the doorframe of your stable.  "I thought you weren't coming, sir.  Why are you taking Eren's horse?"

You pause, your fingers hovering on the chinstrap, and aim a confused stare at him over your shoulder.  You start to say "Because I'm Eren?" but before you're finished, he lurches back in surprise, his hand on the doorframe the only thing keeping him balanced.

"You… you smell like… why do you…?"  His alarm keeps him from forming a coherent question, and after a moment, he shakes his head hard enough to ruffle his hair and leaves you to finish by yourself.

You have no idea what just happened.

It's not until you've all settled into a rough formation and are deep into the forest toward Trost, when Hanji takes a post at your side and asks with waggling eyebrows and a voice of uncharacteristic quiet why Mike thinks you smell like the captain, that you realize the reason for his error.

He can smell Levi's soap on you.

You attempt to shrug it off, but Hanji recognizes the look of dread and comprehension on your face, and she edges her horse closer with a grin.  "I know the face of a man who is hiding something when I see it," she purrs, "and I'm pretty sure you know the face of a person who isn't going to let you rest until you cough it up."

You stare resolutely at Smith's back, straight ahead of you, and mutter "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Come on," she whines, leaning back in the saddle, "make it easy on us here."

You stare sidelong at the wide-eyed puppet-like smile she's settled unblinkingly upon you, and you decide it's probably in your best interest to avoid attracting attention to your conversation, as she will inevitably do if you force her to drag it out.  You keep your voice barely high enough to be heard over the clopping of hooves on the path.  "So I, uh… may or may not have made it back to my cell last night."

She lets out a loud noise of intrigue, and your gaze flicks around anxiously, but thankfully, Hanji is prone to making strange vocalizations and her sound goes unmarked.  "You get some?"

You have no idea what this means.  "Some what?"

"Some— _Eren_ ," she chides, and you feel like she's just discovered you can't read.  "Get _some_."  This incredibly informative elaboration does nothing to help you, and you shake your head with ignorance.  "Some _action_ , boy, good lord!"

"Action…?"

She rolls her eyes behind her expedition goggles.  "There is _no way_ you are this naive."  You shrug, because sorry, but you are, and she hisses, "Did you or did you not tap that ass?"

Realization crashes over you like your head has been stuck inside one of the wall bells.  _Oh_.  "Holy shit NO," you splutter, "no, nope.  Why would you even—!  Why would he!  What, I'm—"

"Because he's _hot_ , you little fox!  Don't even tell me you don't want to see his O face, you are far too transparent and I am nowhere near close to letting you get away with that bald-faced lie."  You keep staring at Erwin's back, mortified that someone could see through you so easily and refusing to confirm this suspicion any further, but the reddening of your face is answer enough, and she cackles like she's lighting things on fire.  "Oh my god and it's so _obvious_ it's mutual, there's no way he'd touch you so much otherwise, he's flirting so hard I can _taste it_." Her fingers wiggle in front of her lips like she's trying to catch air and shove it into her mouth. "I'm serious Eren, you gotta do something about this. Take it up a notch. You gotta."

Her bluntness and vulgarity are stopping your mind cold.  Is she really suggesting your feelings for Levi might be requited after all?  Is she out of her mind?  You already know the answer to that.  "Nope."

"Oh come _on!_   You'd be the envy of literally everyone here.  Including me, I'm not even gonna lie about that.  No, _Eren_ —" her voice drops to a lower pitch in its intensity, and you feel more than slightly unnerved.  "It's an order. You _need_ to do the thing for me."

"The thing?"

"Touch the butt.  For science."

You can't deny that the captain's rear is really something glorious to behold, and much as you'd love to touch it… "No, oh my god I'm not gonna do that, are you nuts?"

She ignores the question, probably because she knows the answer as well as you do.  "No for real you gotta just wait for the opportunity.  Like you're cleaning, right, he's dusting or something, whatever.  And you just come up behind him, real casual, nothing to look at here guys, and you just—"  She makes a remarkable imitation of a goose honking, and her clawed hands grope at the air in front of her face.

Your own is burning so hot it's getting uncomfortable.  "No!"

"But Eren—"

"I'm not talking about this anymore!" you wail, and you spur your horse forward a slot, wedging yourself between Erd and Gunther, where Hanji can't reach you.  She attempts to call after you, her tone taking the harshness of a whisper but the volume carrying, and you pull your hood up and ignore her.

Yep, you are definitely done with that conversation.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Eren's snowballing existential crisis is soundly t-boned by Hanji's colorful swears.
> 
> For the record, Eren doesn't have small feet. Hanji's are huge.

Hanji refuses to let you be done with that conversation.

Despite getting no response, she badgers you until Erd and Gunther have passed the point of laughter into exasperated encouragement to just acknowledge her already, and embarrassment has you pushing farther forward still, through each line of paired riders until you're by Commander Smith's side and Hanji would have to move around the formation to get to you, which the narrow path doesn't allow.

With a chuckle, Smith asks you what she's so curious about.

You whine "nothing" and stare at the foliage overhead.

On your way to the castle headquarters a few days ago, you'd started riding next to Levi, and had only pulled up to speak with Auruo when he'd called you.  Though the trek had been mostly silent, there had been the occasional moment when he would point out a type of tree or shrub and tell you its usefulness should you ever get lost in the wild.  You'd had no idea he was such a nature enthusiast, but upon your prompting for explanation, he'd gone mute and had stayed mute until you'd stabled the horses.

There's a tree with vaguely star-shaped leaves and you wonder if that's the one that only grows on top of groundwater.

You wish you weren't so terrible at remembering things after hearing them only once.

The end of the woods is in sight, and a lump of dread grows in your stomach, because now you're up here with Smith and you know Hanji won't be deterred by that once she's got room to maneuver, but Erd's voice from the back stops your escalating panic when he asks her what she was saying about titans and limb dissection this morning.

The question captures her undivided attention, and you thank your lucky stars you don't have to deal with her interrogation, at least for the moment.  Erd Gin is your new best friend.

By the time you reach the training grounds just north of Trost, the sun is halfway across the afternoon sky, and you notice it's setting a lot earlier now than it had been before your temporary imprisonment.  You still don't know just how many days you lost there, but the gap has left you floundering to regain your circadian rhythm, and you worry whether you'll be able to make it back to headquarters before nightfall.  You think you'll have to, because without Levi here, most of the Corps wouldn't trust you to contain yourself alone in the dark, but the worry gnaws at your guts.

The nostalgia doesn't hit until you cross through the gate to see the mess hall and bell tower directly in front of you.

You know, realistically, that it's been less than two weeks since you left these fences.

That doesn't stop you from feeling like it's been years and wondering how so much time could be crammed into so few days.

Your group stables your horses and accompanies Erwin to the back of the drill pitch stage, where he lets them mount the stairs and take up posts behind the curtains.  As you go to follow, however, he blocks you with a gentle arm.  You start to ask what he's doing, but he holds up a finger to keep you quiet until the others are out of earshot.  You hear someone call for the recruits to fall into line on the pitch, and the muffled thunder of their footsteps pulls strings in your chest.  _Mikasa is out there.  Armin is out there.  Jean and Marco, Annie, Bertl and Reiner, Sasha and Connie—_ suddenly you feel like the most rancid piece of crap in the world for your earlier thought about Erd being your "new best friend," because how could you replace any of these guys so easily?  Have the past few days truly been so meaningful to you as to erase the last three years, an entire lifetime of your two friends so close to your heart you consider them family?

It occurs to you that you can't even be sure how many of them are still alive.  The only people you saw after turning titan — that you can recall, anyway — were Mikasa and Armin at the tribunal, and other than that, you've simply assumed everyone is alive because the possibility of any one of them dying is ludicrous.

And painful.

The thought alone feels like a knife between your ribs.  You feel as though you've lived two completely separate lives with two completely separate sets of friends and priorities, separated by the tribunal, and you can't tell which one is real, unable to reconcile them.  All you know is that you're burning to see your trainee friends, nearly bouncing on the balls of your feet, kept in place only by Erwin's arm.

Once he feels you're clear, he murmurs, "Put your hood up.  You're to stay out of sight.  Don't let them know you're here."

A weight drops in your stomach.  _No._ No, this isn't why you came, to hide in the shadows; you're here because you _need to see them_ and you can't wait any longer.  Your hands move on the reflex to follow orders, already pulling the hood over your face, but you can't contain your crestfallen frustration as you demand, "Why not?"

He winks, but says nothing, and proceeds onto the stage.

You wish you could smack him and get away with it.  Or scream.  Screaming would feel nice right about now, unleashing the outrage building in your stomach and climbing up your chest, boiling so violently your breath shakes.  This may be the last time you ever see your friends, and you did not come all this way only to hide from them.  What was the point in letting you come along if you aren't supposed to be here?

Your teeth grit so hard they make cracking sounds in your jaw.

Offstage, Major Hanji looks for you over her shoulder and beckons you up, touching a finger to her lips.

You recall thinking that everyone here is a freaking nut job and you've enlisted in the loony bin branch.  Still, though, you know that Erwin has a habit of making plans that don't involve telling you or anyone else what the hell is going on, strategies that depend wholly on your ignorance and natural reactions, using the suffering and discomfort of one scapegoated pawn to make the rest of his chess pieces fall into place across the board.  And you know, based on the fact that you're still alive and here, that despite how irritating they can be, his plans don't fail.

If he's letting you in on this one, however small his divulgence, and is giving you instructions to follow so as to see it through, you'd do best to obey.  Whatever his reasoning for wanting to keep you hidden, you know it must be important.

Gingerly, pretending your feet are made of clouds, you mount the stairs and tiptoe across the backstage as Erwin dives into his presentation.  Major Hanji shifts to allow you a front-seat vantage between Erd and Gunther.

You do your best to catch glimpses into the audience from where you stand, hoping the curtain shadows and your hood will veil your face for the second or two that your head peeks out from behind the curtain.  In the second row, standing next to and partially blocking your view of someone with dark hair — Marco? — is Christa's tiny form, her face discernible between two people in the row ahead.  You think that's Ymir's broad shoulder on her other side based on the fragment of visible undershirt, though you can't see much more, not daring to poke your nose out any farther and try to see around whoever's form in the front row is impeding your line of sight.

Then that someone shuffles in place, widening the stance of their feet and meticulously self-monitoring the fall of their jacket around their frame, and you can see a sliver of the white button-down and the petite, male-bodied form.  You catch a hint of golden blond silk-fine hair that doesn't quite touch the shoulders.

Your heart leaps into your mouth, heightening your senses, and you can smell the dirt from the pitch and the wood of the platform and the horse dander on your cloak and you can smell the cheap old barracks soap rising from the audience and _it's him, you know it's him, it's Armin._

Swept in the choking need to see his face, you lean toward Gunther on your left as discreetly as possible until you can see the chubby baby cheeks that cover nonexistent cheekbones, the doll-like blue eyes too large for his face that are perpetually widened like a frightened mouse, the delicate upturn of his button nose.  Your blood pulses so fast you can feel it twitching in your throat, and you bite the inside of your cheeks to keep from grinning or laughing or shouting, you aren't sure, anything that would invariably draw his attention to you.  His eyebrows crinkle with astute calculation, you can practically see the cogs turning beneath his translucent skin, and you know he's recognized Erwin's scheme and is already divining it as the man's booming voice carries across the pitch and echoes off the barracks.

Not wanting to be spotted and blow Erwin's plan, whatever it may be, you're forced to lean back into place, but just as you begin to move, Armin's lips flutter with a whisper, and the person beside him, just out of your range of perception, turns their head to hear him better.

Pin-straight black hair swishes over the visible epaulet, and the tassels of a scarf fall into view.

Your heart, hammering beyond comfort, just about stops entirely.

You can't wait to see them any longer, you're aching to burst from behind the curtain and jump into the audience of your classmates and sweep them both into your arms — hell, dog pile everyone you've ever spoken to while you're at it, why not — and in that moment, you imagine spikes bolting your feet to the floor because it's all you can do to not run to them.  You yearn to be with them again, to have them at your side, to fight with them and hang with them, make fun of superior officers and Jean with them, and you long to see them remain on the pitch and join the Corps.

You sincerely hope they don't.

Much as Mikasa has avowed to go where you go, and Armin insists that his talents would serve better use in the Corps than in the Garrison, you don't want to see the rest of your family take this lifestyle.

Much as you preach about doing what you know you must and about the vulgar irresponsibility of taking the path perceived safer because there is no such path, you would much rather see Mikasa concealed within the capital and Armin stationed at a desk and strategizing fortification than you would see them jump onto the front lines that you know will be venturing beyond the walls in a few weeks' time.

You know, realistically, that no one branch is more secure than any other, that staying out of the military entirely is no safer than joining, that the world you live in will kill you all eventually and there is no choice that will keep them safe and alive forever.

But you also know that you earned the nickname "Suicidal Bastard" for a reason, and that among the choices of death sentences they're left with, the one you chose is the one whose path leads quickest to death.

You chose this because the anger and impudence within you left you no other option.

They have options.  And this isn't the right one.

You desperately, feverishly, hope that Mikasa sees straight now that you're out of her hands and joins the MP, that Armin uses his rationality and puts his intellect to use in the Garrison where it's needed, and that Jean and Marco managed to talk sense back into Connie and Sasha and steer them toward the MP with the top four.

You know Christa is smart enough to not come here, and you know she's as aware as you are that Ymir wouldn't want to be separated from her, so you're certain they'll both go Garrison.  Shit, you hope they do.

You're lonely and isolated and abandoned, but you pray that you're the only one stupid enough to enlist in the Corps.  Then you won't have to devote such pressing urgency to the matter of their safety, and that would calm this erratic thundering of your blood significantly, even though you need their company and attention like air and water, just as much as you need the smell of Levi's tea and his gentle voice murmuring rules about consonant clusters and his spiderweb fingers whispering across the yellowing pages of his fairy tale book.

The thought of your new life hits you in the sternum, and you remember with a sinking guilt that you're Spec Ops Titan Eren now, not Loud-Mouthed Trainee Eren, and even if anyone joins with the Corps, you already know they won't be with you in Levi's squad and you'll rarely see them.  Although your two lives are quite possibly about to converge, you still don't know how to merge them in your mind.  Your life in the Corps, though barely begun, already feels lightyears more advanced and mature than the fifteen years you'd spent prior, surrounded by children and belittled like a child.  You have no idea how you'll balance hang time with your classmates _and_ with your squad, or private time with your two best friends _and_ with Levi.

The dilemma of them versus him hammers another, deeper knife of anxiety through your ribs.

You already consider him one of your closest friends, and somehow, the removal from their presence had diminished in your mind just how close to you they really are.  You'd like to call it a coping mechanism for not knowing whether you'd already seen them for the last time, but part of you can't help but think you've been so lovestruck and infatuated that you just plain forgot anyone else existed.

And you've thought you're so much more mature now that your environment has shifted.

You have no idea how to tell them you're in love with your commanding officer and that — if your closeness to him is any indication of his feelings, as Hanji speculates it could be and you'd love to believe is true — you might have a very real chance of actually getting somewhere with him.

Your stomach is in coils, and suddenly, your biggest fear isn't losing control of your feet and rushing toward them, it's puking on the stage.

You remember, with the shock of stepping into an ice-cold puddle, that he gave you a note before you left.

Taking care to move slowly enough as to not attract attention, you slip the note out of your back pocket where you'd stuck it and promptly forgotten about it.

This one is about the length of the last, but with your pulse knocking on your tongue and a million panicked emotions flooding your senses, you have trouble processing it.  You stare up into your eyebrows and mouth your way through the alphabet at least two dozen times, and though you can remember the sounds each letter makes, you can't string them together into words.  The last word in particular gives you problems because _what the hell is suh-harp_ , and you're almost ready to ask Erd for help when it occurs to you to attempt reading through it, and perhaps context will provide the answer.

_Come to my quarters for dinner.  Dress sharp._

Oh, that's the _shh_ sound, right, it's a consonant cluster and you're an idiot.

Then you process the meaning of the words you've unraveled, and you remember that he had this note prepared all morning, and all the adrenaline evaporates from you at once, leaving you numb and thoughtless and unable to recognize the existence of anything short of the paper in your hands.

… _oh_.

Is he requesting what you think he's requesting?

If he's not, what exactly _is_ he requesting?

If he is…

You know you're blushing, you can feel the burn under your hood, and you whisper to Gunther, "How long will it take us to get back?"

He shrugs.  "About the same as it took us to get here, so… couple hours?"

"In time for dinner?"

He stares across you toward Erd, who shrugs one shoulder and murmurs, "Probably."

Hanji grips your shoulders, making you jump, and leans around your hood to breathe, "Ooooo, what's that, you get a love note?"

" _No_ ," you hiss, shoving the paper into your front pocket without folding it, "I just… gotta get back, is all."

You feel Hanji's hair brush your hood as she nods fervently.  "Gonna take off right now anyway," she says, no longer containing her volume over the thunder of footsteps that has arisen from the pitch, and you look up to remember where you are and that Erwin is still here and he's watching the lot of you with a look you can't decipher as the field empties.

"Wait… is it over?"  That had gone much quicker than you'd anticipated, and you try to catch a peek at the pitch.  Your coiled stomach writhes like snakes.  "Who's joining?"

"You'll find out later with the rest of us, I'm 'fraid!" she insists, gripping your elbow.  You allow her to steer you off the platform and back to the stables, though you don't miss that she attempts to reach for your pocket once.

You aren't sure, as you prepare your horse and mount it, whether to turn back and demand more information or encourage the party to return to you headquarters and Levi as fast as possible.

You elect to do neither, and let yourself get swept along in the pace and flow around you.

There is no Erwin to shield you from the major's third-degree this time, and Erd doesn't seem to be in a mood to distract her anymore, so you bear her barrage and make "I don't want to talk about it" your new catchphrase.

"What's in the note?"

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"It's a love note isn't it."

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"How come you guys spent the afternoon alone the other day?  What were you doing?"

"Don't wanna talk about it."

"Man, if I had a penny for the number of times he's touched you or said silly things to you or let you in when no one else would be able to, I'd have… well not a lot because pennies aren't worth much but still, I'd have more than nothing.  You do know that, right?"

"Oh my God I don't want to talk about it."

"So you didn't do the do yesterday, right?  You said you didn't tap it, are you lying to me?"

"Don't wanna talk about it, Major, please, stop talking about him like that."

"If you weren't doing the do why exactly didn't you make it back to your cell, hmmm?"

You could answer this one honestly, because you hadn't done anything and you could leave out the state of undress you'd both been in, but admitting that you'd shared a bed would open a crack in the door through which she would stick her toe and consequently ram her entire body, and you aren't going to tolerate it in your hyped-up state.  "Don't.  Want.  To talk about it."

"Eren, I would really love if you'd indulge me, just for psychology's sake.  I'd never thought I'd see him in a state like this and I'm just _fascinated_ by the facets of connection and potential parallels, the motivations behind his—"

"Major, I don't want to talk about it."

You've steered your horse nearly into the woods to avoid hers trampling yours in her increasing attempt to get on top of you with excitement, but now she sits back in the saddle and whines loudly, and her horse pulls away enough that you feel like you can draw a full breath again.  You hope she's given up, for now at least, and you think back on the words that Levi wrote for you.

_Dress sharp._

What exactly would constitute sharp?  You have the khaki jeans you'd worn during cleaning, and you do have a button-down shirt, and they've been washed now so you suppose they would work… but only in tandem with an additional piece to tie them together.  By themselves, they just look casual, even sloppy.  When you think "dressed sharp," what comes to mind is three-piece suits and tailored blazers and Levi's cravat and polished black slip-on shoes, and you don't have any of those things.  You don't even have extra shoes; the slippers you wore to the tribunal hardly count as footwear at all, let alone sharp-looking footwear, and you doubt he'd be all too impressed if you showed up in your uniform boots.

An idea occurs to you, stupid and potentially self-ruining, crazy enough that it just might work.

"Major," you murmur, and in an instant, she's back at your side so close your legs nearly touch.  "Um… if I tell you the basics, can you promise you won't push further?"

Her eyes are huge behind her goggles.  "But Eren I can't jus—"

"No, I'm serious," you insist, your voice low.  "I'm not really sure what's going on or where anything is headed, but I don't want to fuck it up with third-party probing, okay?  If allowing your surface-level involvement is the way to get you to back off, I'll take that compromise, but I need your assurance that you _will_ back off."

She sighs so heavily you're sure Mike can hear it at the front of the formation — or smell it, maybe — and stares into the distance without answering.

Perhaps just mentioning the gravity of your need for personal space on this matter is enough to convince her to grant it.

Then she whips her head around so fast her ponytail smacks her on the nose.  "Okay," she agrees, "but only if what you give me is really really super good."

You sigh, rolling your eyes, and fish the crumpled note out of your pocket.

Her face lights up with a manic glee when she reads it, and she actually bounces in the saddle.

The degree to which you are unnerved makes you instantly regret your decision.

"This is _amazing,_ " she whispers, and there is a literal drop of salivation at the corner of her mouth.  You think her goggles are steaming up.  She talks so fast her words blend together and make you feel like you're attempting to read them.  "This type of consideration to commitment is unprecedented, I mean granted he's probably the most doggedly loyal person I've ever seen but still, considering his general attitude, it's remarkable — unbelievable, even — oh _wow_ I can't even put into words how _fascinating_ it is that he's willing to progress so quickly — but holy hopscotching crap in a wicker basket, what're you gonna _wear?"_

You feel like this is a question one Capital girl would ask another over powdering their noses before a big date with her equally teenaged beau, and you suppose you kind of are a teenager tiptoeing around the topic of his first date, but the notion of Levi as the beau makes you uncomfortable.  "That's… why I wanted to involve you, actually, because I have no idea.  I have like, a shirt and pants, but that's—"

Her laughter interrupts you, and you can't help but think it's exceptionally dog-like.  She turns her gaze upon you, dark eyes magnified by the goggles, the toothy grin making her resemblance to an excited puppy uncanny.  All she needs is a wagging tail.  "Oh, my boy, I can take care of that for you.  I can definitely, most definitely help you with that.  Oh man this is more than enough for me, I'll gladly leave you alone to hell and back for this, good gracious god yes this is amazing—"

You get the impression she's not talking to you anymore, so you tune her out for the rest of the trip, while the sky grows worryingly dim.

You do make it back and stable the horses in time for dinner, but just barely.

You want to run to the castle and vault the stairs two or three at a time, but Hanji grips your shirt hard and forces you to keep her pace all the way to the foyer, where she tells you to run and change clothes and meet her upstairs, her door will be open, and darts away.  You comply as quickly as you can, even changing your underwear and quickly bird-bathing yourself at the rusty sink while naked to remove the horse smell, but as you climb the winding narrow staircase in stocking feet, the stairs feel like they're moving downward with every step up you take.  Time feels like it's flying past; you imagine Levi waiting bitterly at his desk and clench your fists as you run.  You've never been so frustrated.

You're tempted to just bypass Hanji's assistance entirely and make straight for Levi's closed door, but Hanji peeks out just as you emerge onto the floor and drags you into her room, giggling low and unbalanced.  She closes the door behind you as if afraid using too much force will trigger an explosion.  You're tempted to laugh at the amount of care she puts into it, because you've never seen her be subtle about literally anything, even walking and talking, but you're too distracted from amusement by the cannon round test site of her quarters and the wobbling of her arms as she bounds, cervine, across the floor through piles of paperwork, crates, and dirty clothes — didn't you just do her laundry? — and nearly loses her balance a few times.  She shoves a box aside with her foot to throw open the doors of the overflowing and unorganized wardrobe.

You hope Levi has never seen the inside of her quarters.  You can't say you're surprised, though, and you can't imagine he would be either, so you guess he probably avoids her end of the floor entirely.

She rifles through the hangers, alternately humming and muttering to herself, and with a shout of "Aha!" she whips out a deep v-necked black sweater vest and turns to face you.  "Try this on!"

You're not sure how you're going to get over to her.

At your helpless shrug, she waves you to stay in place and returns to the wardrobe, shoving clothes aside to find the shoes buried at the bottom.  You don't understand why she brought all this clothing, since you've yet to see her in anything besides her uniform and that yellow undershirt, let alone how she possibly transported it along with all the boxes and paperwork.  She _did_ get here later than the rest of you; did she bring her own cart?  From the looks of it, she'd need more like her own personal freaking convoy.

"What's your shoe size?"

You tell her, and she laughs so hard it turns to coughing, managing to choke out "your feet are a little smaller than mine, sweet jelly on crap" before selecting a pair of shiny ankle-high slip-ons with a squared toe that look surprisingly new and untouched.

She leapfrogs her way back to you, and she's thrown the sweater vest over your head before you know whether it's even facing the right way.  You straighten it and get your arms through it properly, tucking your shirt into your pants like a civilized human being, and step into the shoes as she kneels to cram them onto your feet.  Her clothes fit you rather well, if a bit roomy in the toe, and you can't help but think you look rather like a pint-sized Bertholdt.

For a moment, the worry flits into your mind whether he really did go with the MP or not, but it's gone as Hanji adjusts your collar and picks at your hair.

She draws her hands to her chest, gives a nod of approval, and spins you around forcibly to shove you out the door.

"Have fun on your HOT DATE," she whispers, and this time, she isn't shy about slamming the door behind you.

Levi's room is the next door over, but despite the urgency that has been spurring you to _hurry the fuck up_ , your feet are rooted in place.

Did she really have to call it that?  Now you're terrified, and you're sure you're sweating enough to live up to the boy whose wardrobe you've accidentally emulated.  Is this sharply dressed enough?  Should you have bathed more thoroughly?  Are you supposed to get dinner first and meet him up here?  What if it's not at all the date she's primed you for?

What if it is?

The door behind you opens with a loud sigh from the occupant, and before you've processed what's happening, she has dragged you down the hall, planted you in front of his door, and rapped her callused knuckles on it.  You stare at her, your stomach flipping over and over, but she grins at you and scampers away, darting into her room just in time for the door before you to open.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Call me Kraft Easy Mac because I am the cheesiest.
> 
> I'm not sure whether to be proud or sheepish that I am not above the use of [this trope](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/DanceOfRomance), but either way, I am not.
> 
> Song: [[x](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QxHkLdQy5f0)]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanart for this chapter comes from [youweremyridehome](http://youweremyridehome.tumblr.com/post/68017513280) and [charynrae](http://charynrae.tumblr.com/post/68146078510)! Also art from [tanekore](http://tanekore.tumblr.com/post/71470599353) — not necessarily from this chapter, but I feel it fits in best here. Hope that's okay!
> 
> For the record, I tend to think the series takes place in the future, which is why I've included cultural items from recent history. Hanji says the tale of Sawney Bean (from the 1500s) happened "a long, long time ago," so I'm figuring it wouldn't be unreasonable to think the story could take place in the future, and that most technology — including everything electric and most transportation, given the need to harvest fossil fuels in order to keep these things running — didn't survive the panicked rush to outrun the titans into the walls. After all, most people didn't.
> 
> I imagine Levi's chattel featured here is therefore exceptionally rare.

He meets your gaze without a word, and you're glad for it, because the sight of him leaves you too stunned to process any language.

You'd thought, during all the time you'd spent in this room yesterday, that you'd seen him as attractive as he could get; the image of his naked back and tight underpants folding as he'd stretched his arms overhead is still burned into your mind.

But in his black suit and silk tie — he's wearing a _tie_ , you can see the creamy line of his throat all the way down to where it disappears under his starched white collar — you can't say you've ever wanted to kiss him more.

"Just in time," he murmurs, stepping back to allow you passage into the room, and he smooths a hand over the buttons of his coat, drawing your attention to how finely tucked it is at the waist and how high it sits upon his hips, seeming to extend the length of his leg and narrow his sculpted frame, giving him the appearance of added height.  Your sight follows the curve of the jacket all the way up to his shoulders, sweeping across to the delicate curve of his jaw, and you're compelled to brush your fingertips over his skin, to draw the supple swell of his mouth toward yours, to drop the tap-dance of nerves altogether and just go for it.

You wonder how many lifetimes it would take before he would ever let you speak to him again.

His movement as he closes the door behind you is a bit too abrupt, and you realize that as you've been ogling him, he's been staring at you in turn.

You tug the hem down on your borrowed sweater vest and ignore the heat rising in your face.

Closing the door traps an unfathomably delicious aroma in the room, but you don't have time to process it, because he strides back to the desk and withdraws the small vial of alcohol, offering you some for your hands.  You remember, oh right, he doesn't like doorknobs.  "Sorry," you mumble as you rub the evaporating fluid across your knuckles, "I washed up as best I could, but I don't know if—"

"I appreciate it," he cuts in at a murmur, replacing the vial in its drawer and spreading a copious amount of the alcohol over his own hands.  His desk is arranged with two sets of dishes that face each other, and you observe that your rickety chair has been returned to its corner and the chair on the guest end of his desk is a sepia leather almost as plush as his own black one.  You wonder where he procured it.  Further, the plates are both empty, and you puzzle over where exactly your meals are going to come from and why the room smells so delectable.

It's a bit chilly in the room, more so than normal, and you notice the window is open a crack in the second before you realize why.  The small cauldron beneath it emits a pleasantly thick white steam, fueled by the wood fire on a perforated bowl beneath it, and the frame that holds them both ends in a tray to catch the ashes just above the floor.  The smoke curls around a saucer at the top of the contraption, then slides lazily out the crack in the window.

"What, um…"  You rock back and forth on your feet, and he adjusts the cuffs of his shirt so they peek out from his coat.  "What's for dinner?"

His hands snap to his buttons again — are his fingers shaking? — and without looking at you, he says, "Nanaba and her squad caught a boar this morning.  Officers get first rights to the prime cuts.  Separating out the gravy took the better part of the day, but hopefully it'll be worth the trouble."

You gape at him, attempting to understand the implication of his words.  "You… cooked dinner for us?"

"Of course," he snorts, ushering you into the guest chair and scooping your plate off the table.  "Not much point bringing you here if I'm not going to provide all the necessary shit myself."

He moves to the portable cooker, which you're convinced is a safety violation, and you turn to watch him.  You already like this chair far better than the old one, but you're more concerned with how _amazing_ his backside looks in those slacks.  You pull your eyes off his butt to observe as he doles a portion of steamed root vegetables onto your plate from the saucer, followed by a thick slab of white meat from the pot, and drizzles thick tan gravy over it all.

Your eyes widen and flicker in and out of focus.

_Meat.  Real meat.  You get to eat real meat._

You manage to notice that, just past him, another piece of furniture has emerged within the room, about the size and shape of a nightstand but with a large brass horn curving out of the top.  You've never seen anything like it and you have no idea what it could possibly do, so as he returns to you with the plate, you nod your head toward it and give him an expression of curious eyebrows.  "Sir, what's…?"

He nods slowly at it.  "A relic.  I don't like to tout that I have it, so I take it apart and reassemble it every time I shift locations."

"What is it?"

"Phonograph."  He takes his own plate to fill, and with his back to you at the cooker, he says, "It plays music."

Your brow crinkles.  You've heard music, folk singing and the occasional accompaniment of a single basic stringed instrument, but you get the feeling he's talking about something much more grandiose and complex, something that isn't supposed to exist anymore.  You recall Armin's textbook and the amount of trouble you'd known he would be in if anyone saw it, and you cannot imagine the extremity of forbiddance the phonograph must carry.

"Isn't old world material classified as contraband, sir?"

"No," he says, "just things that make people want to visit the outside world.  Which I suppose that would.  That's why I don't like to show it off.  Kind of like that book you fell asleep drooling on last night."

You twirl your fork in your hand.  "I wasn't… really, was…?"

"For fuck's sake, Eren, calm down.  No."  He joins you at the desk, plucking his sleeves a bit higher on his wrists, and gestures for you to dig in.

Your first bite is small and tentative, wanting to look as fancy as you feel.  The moment you chomp down and the flavored salt bursts over your tongue, you swear a spotlight switches on from the heavens and beams directly down onto you and your plate, because you have never tasted anything so incredible nor felt so appreciative of the simple joy of eating.  You've never had pork that tasted so rich and savory, even the yams and parsnips juicier and more scrumptious than you'd ever imagined they could be, and the gravy ties it all together into a luscious symphony of flavor in your mouth.

You're torn between wanting to savor every bite and draw it out as long as you can, and wanting to wolf down everything on the plate in a single mouthful.

You're starting to understand Sasha on a level of deep and personal kinship.

You pace yourself to match him instead.  He doesn't seem to react as strongly as you do, but the occasional contented sigh he emits makes you believe he's enjoying it just the same.

When you're both nearly done, you pick up the conversation where it had paused for gustation.  "You seem to have a lot of old world contraband, sir."

He chuckles through his nose.  "Yeah, never really thought about it.  Guess it's hard to shake the habit of doing at least one thing against the law."  You hadn't meant it like that, but he winks at you over his fork.  He consumes the last of his meal and you make no delay in doing the same, practically turning your fork into a shovel to pack it all in your mouth at once.  He laughs at you, and you roll your eyes and bear it.  "That good?"

You nod until you've swallowed enough to speak.  "Far and away the best meal I've ever had."

His slender eyebrows rise.  "That's quite a compliment."

"I'm serious though," you insist, trailing your fork through the few remaining molecules of gravy and mourning their loss, "I had no idea you could cook, let alone that well."

He gives a hum of amusement and takes your used dishes, stacking them on his.  "Add that to the list of skills you didn't know I had."  You fold your hands in your lap and stare at them sheepishly, not wanting to think you've pigeonholed him into any particular role or persona in your mind, but he doesn't seem to notice, carting your dishes to his washroom sink.  He calls out over his shoulder, "Along with teaching, kickboxing, ballroom dancing, and painting beautiful landscapes with my piss in the snow."

You snort with laughter, clamping your hands between your knees and listening to the hiss of him rinsing your plates and the clink of him placing them on the marble edges to dry.  Of course he can't take a moment of flirtation and _not_ turn it into something vulgar.  Perhaps he hasn't even recognized your poor attempt at flirting?  Then again, he's treating you very kindly, and all you've done is cast doubt upon his skill and point out his various illegalities.  You can't even tell yet if it's a date.

In the moment the water shuts off, however, his words finally register.

"Ballroom dancing, sir?"

He emerges, having blotted his hands on the towel, and raises an eyebrow.  "Yeah.  In order to garner some alliance from the relatives of royals, you have to meet them in their natural habitat, so you have to absorb a fair bit of decorum yourself.  Can't exactly burst into a formal masquerade looking like you've just crawled out of the gutter you live in, can you?"

"So you learned to dance?"

"Of course.  Music is far more common in the capital than it is here, mainly because they can afford to make actual instruments and play it."  He pauses, furrowing his brow at the portable cooker that has all but lost its flame, and muses, "Or maybe they're contraband too.  I was never too clear on that point."

As interesting an idea it is that contraband might be commonplace in the capital, you sort of don't care about it at the moment.  Your fingertips tingle.  "Bet it's been a long time since you've had cause to dance, though."

He chuckles, "You implying I wouldn't remember anymore?"

You glance up at him from under your fringe.

"You're not subtle," he chides, but he moves toward you with an outstretched hand regardless, and in just those few steps you can tell something has changed about his movements, something that makes his muscles roll together from separate units into a single cohesive, fluid entity, his entire body moving as one with a tight control you don't quite understand.

You take his hand and let him guide you out of your chair to the middle of the floor.

He asks you if you'd like to learn a waltz or a schottische.

You pick the first one because the second one is harder to say. 

Spinning on his toes to face you, he keeps your left hand clasped in his right, and rests his own left upon your upper arm.  You stare at his fingers on your sleeve and notice his little finger sticks up just a hair, as if magnetized away from your shirt.  It's about the most snobby and adorable thing you've ever seen and you hope you successfully avert a growing blush.

He instructs you to put your right hand on his side, and though you initially grip the curve of his waist, he tuts at you and commands, "Higher."  At first, afraid you've committed an offense, you hike your hand up to the base of his ribs, but he shakes his head and tells you higher, higher, until your hand is just under his arm.

"This isn't very comfortable."

"It isn't supposed to be comfortable, just pretty.  Lift your elbow."

You raise the angle of your arm to hover under his sleeve.  The twill is supple and sleek in your grasp, and you wish you'd asked Hanji for a jacket of your own.

"So, the waltz is in triple meter—"

"What."

He smiles at the flat delivery of your confusion.  "Each set of steps is done within three beats.  There are a bunch of steps you can do, and you can do each of them backwards as well as forwards, so I can teach you the change steps as well."

"What is it with everything you teach me having two separate sets?"

He chuckles.  "I'm not sure if you'll be able to handle the fleckerls yet, since they're five steps instead of three, but we'll try.  When I'm sure you've got all the steps down, we'll put it to music so you can time it right.  Once it's playing you should be able to hear the rhythm of it."

You attempt shake your head enough to force this to make sense.  It doesn't.  "Wait, so is it three or five?"

"Both.  Sometimes.  Just do as I say and trust me."

Those words stick in your head and permeate all other thought until all you can remember is his question yesterday morning in the debriefing room.

You still aren't sure if you can blindly trust the rest of your squad.  In fact, you think it would be pretty stupid to do that.

But you do trust him.

He watches your face, and you become aware of how close to you he is; you can smell a hint of his tea soap and a trace of moth balls from his coat, and his body is warm under your hand.  In the candlelight, you can see the striations of his colorless irises as they shrink around his expanding pupils.  You're not sure you've ever seen them so dilated.  His fingers are cold as they curl around your thumb, but his palm in yours is dry and comfortably cool.  You nod, and clasp his hand a little tighter.

He tells you how to move your feet one movement at a time and nudges your ankles into better positions across the floorboards if you're a millimeter out of place.  You have trouble remembering the exact angles between the steps — you're pretty good at spacial orientation with 3D gear, but take away the third dimension and it turns out your cardinal directionality is for shit.  After about twenty minutes and at least as many exasperated grunts from each of you, he tells you to envision that you're dancing along an elliptical track.  The imaginary boundaries make things a little easier for you to visualize, so you attempt to follow his feet, but he snaps at you that you have to lead, that's why he's teaching you the man's part.

"Unless you'd rather learn the woman's part?" he adds in a deferent tone.  "I'm not fussed either way, I just started with the guy's part because I figured that's what you'd want, but if I'm wrong, let me know.  Clearly, I can do both."

You shrug, shaking your head, and he clicks his tongue at you.

He counts one-two-three, one-two-three, and with his rhythm as your guide, you lead him forward, turning clockwise, round the turn of your imaginary track, attempt a change step and fail, and growl to yourself for a moment before you're able to listen to him and absorb his instruction, "Just move straight forward, stop spinning."

You practice nothing but change steps for a few revolutions around the track.

It feels like ages when you're floundering in untrained repetition, but once you've gotten comfortable with the motions, it feels like no time before you're sliding easily around the room and following the rhythm in your head without Levi counting.

When he asks if you'd like to try fleckerls, you say sure, absolutely, bring it on.

It turns out the five-step thing is a lot harder than you'd thought.  What makes it even harder is that you're pressed nearly chest-to-chest with him, and the closeness to his warmth causes incredible difficulty in maintaining concentration.

It also causes you to intrude upon his foot space.

"For fuck's sake, Eren, I said _cross right over left_ , not kick me in the shin—"

"I'm sorry—"

"I know you're completely incapable of following a goddamn order but I've seen titans with more grace than you—"

"I didn't mean to, I'm so sorry—"

He tells you to imagine you're standing in a little box, and the steps are contained within that box as you're moving your back from one side to the next.

This visualization retrains your idea of acceptable stepping distance, and you manage to learn the steps and eventually put them to rhythm without much further incident.  He hisses once or twice as you step a little too close, but you try to stay light on your feet.

You tell him you're pretty sure you've got it, but he insists until he's satisfied, which takes long enough that you get a little bored and almost forget you're holding his hand.  He teaches you a contra change, which is sort of like a dip because he throws his head back as you both lean back toward your bent elbows, and when he does, you suddenly remember kissing him right there on that exposed throat just this morning.

He asks you something, but you don't register until he pulls his hand from yours to snap it next to your ear.  "Pay attention."

"Wha—"

"You ready to try with music?"

You gulp.  Though you're good with the fleckerls, and the normal turns are easy, you're afraid to put it to the test of actual rhythm.  He recognizes your misgivings with a raised eyebrow and tells you the music is at least double the speed you've been going.

Your heart flutters uncomfortably, hindering your breathing, but your feet are itching to keep moving and your fingers are cold where his palm is missing.  You've already embarrassed yourself thoroughly enough in front of him, so what harm could it do to throw caution to the wind?

Fuck it.

"Yeah, absolutely."

He nods and moves toward the phonograph.  With nimble fingers, he opens the door on the front of the phonograph and flips a switch that activates a steady flow of gas from a canister contained within it.  A flat black disc on the top begins to spin, and he lowers a thin metal arm onto it.

A gentle tune flows from the bell-shaped horn at the top, mellow reeds and a delicate harp, and as he moves slowly to meet you where you stand as stiff as a pole, he moves like a cat, all liquid grace and no bone.  With the music, the beauty of his motions is amplified and encouraged, and while you should be embarrassed by your inexperience, you can't be bothered by it; you're too enraptured by the sudden emergence of his absolute _elegance_.  His ability to captivate leaves you astounded, and for the first time, you feel as though you are seeing the real Levi — not the silently intimidating captain nor the famous titan-slaying guard dog, not even the vicious criminal he once was — you see a man designed for finery and carefree amusement.  If you were to see someone moving toward you with this refined omnipresence, you would give him anything he asked without questioning what he wanted.

And you don't question.

He bows, sliding a foot back and offering his hand, and you take it, drawing him into the position he's taught you.  You're sure to keep your elbow high enough this time.

He starts off whispering a steady _one-two-three, one-two-three_ under his breath, but as the harp dies and the bowed strings mount, you shush him gently, because you can hear it in the brass and the accompanying reeds.

You meet his eyes, and you know he's waiting for you to start; he's taught you to lead, and lead you will, without his guidance.  But you don't start yet.  Something is building, climbing with the reeds and the strings as they mount into a wave, you can feel it, and in that instant you know you're both wrong — you're not leading, the music is.

The strings tip over the edge into the chorus, crashing in a wave that propels your feet, and you move.

You step forward, pull him backward, turning and turning with him in your arms.  The doubled pace doesn't hinder you, not even in the change step before you make the turn around the ellipse.  You're not as good with the counterclockwise motion as you are with the clockwise, but you keep pace, and make the next change step and turn without a hitch.

You take him around and around the room, him giggling and you swearing when you mess up, and he patiently guides you back into the rhythm.  You attempt to draw him into a fleckerl and screw up and step on his toes, and he shouts but as you whimper apologies you realize he's laughing.  The sound is as high-bubbling and free as a child in the streets, fracturing the moment of giggles you'd heard last night and discrediting it entirely, and it stops you dead, more beautiful to you than any of the instruments or melodies gliding from the phonograph, more precious to you than any of the books or music or contraband anyone could offer.

You'd thought you would give anything to the man with the unparalleled magnetism.

But that commanding silence can't hold a candle to the pink-faced man laughing before you, gripping your arm for balance and moving his feet around where yours are planted.

You have no idea why dancing is bring it out of him but you're certain, absolutely certain, nobody has ever heard that sound nor seen this person before, and suddenly you're aware that there are innumerable facets of Levi no one has ever known, and you're determined to witness them all.

You'd thought you would give him anything, but you already have.  You've given him _everything_.  And here he holds it in his hand, and as he guides you to try the fleckerl again, he has no idea.

Your feet move with the ease of training, muscle memory guiding them rather than deliberate concentration, because you're not thinking about the dance nor watching your motions anymore, but his cheeks bunched into apples above his grinning mouth and the hair that flies in his glittering eyes as you spin in place.

He's so close to you, so warm and alive, and you can't help how tightly you grip his hand in yours.  His fingers squeeze your arm, and you know he's aware of it and doesn't mind.

You lead him into a clockwise step, and you're whirling around the floor again, one of your shoes occasionally squeaking over the wooden boards as you turn.  Your movements aren't practiced and deliberate enough and he misreads you, and attempts to go into a change step as you try to keep moving, and you run into his shoulder.  He snorts, and the affection spills out of you in laughter so uproarious it steals your breath.  By the time you calm yourself, the song has moved into a lull, and it takes you a moment to regain the rhythm and change step yourself back into it, moving counterclockwise and making the turn.

You wonder vaguely if Hanji can hear you.

Levi steps a bit closer than normal as you change step again, and you don't care about Hanji.

The chorus mounts, louder and higher, strings filling in gaps where you hadn't known there were any.  Another wave is building, bigger than before, and you follow the music as it peaks and prods you to draw him closer, slide your hand under his arm around to his shoulder blade, and just as the wave topples, you move into a fleckerl.

He doesn't quite get the memo and crashes into you.  You both start to laugh, but yours catches on the roof of your mouth, and in that moment, he meets your eyes.

His body is still pressed to yours, but not close enough.  Your hand moves across his back and settles on his spine, pulling him flush against you, and he yields, his body pliant under your touch.  His fingers clench on your sleeve, blunted nails biting into your arm, and despite the flush of mirth that paints his cheekbones, his expression is grave and anticipative.

Your hand leaves his hanging in midair and moves to his shoulder.  He draws a shuddering breath as you straighten his lapels and shirt collar, and his hand drops to your waist and clutches the knit vest in a hard, tremulous fistful as your fingers tickle a line up the muscle of his neck.

You cup his jaw in your palm.  His throat shifts under your hand as he swallows, his eyes locked on yours, and you gingerly skim your thumb over his cheek.  His hand slips from your arm to your shoulder, gripping your back even through your clothes, and the tip of his tongue flicks over his lips for an instant, leaving his mouth lightly parted.

You don't know whether it's the music, forgotten in the background, or something else that spurs you on, but as your hand moves from his face to the nape of his neck, thumb caressing his earlobe, you begin to lean into him.

He's shaking, you can feel it from your hand on his back all the way to the stuttering of his breath, but his fingers clutch your clothes and pull you toward him, reeling you in like the magnet you know he is.

His hair touches yours.

His head starts to tip back, falling into the guidance of your hand and tilting to complement your angle, and every part of you is vibrating like the string of a violin.  His chest is heaving against yours as his nose brushes your cheek, and your senses are filled with tea and mint and the remnants of gravy and you drink it all in, drink him in from his trembling breath to his shaking hands, as your lip contacts his.

Abruptly, he stiffens in your arms, pulling in a sharp breath as though breaking free from water.  "You should be reading."

He's moved back from you, slipping out of your embrace as easily as he'd let himself be pulled into it, and with a sudden painfully empty stomach, you let him go, your hands falling to your sides.  "Yeah."

The soles of his shoes snapping against the floor sounds uncommonly loud as he strides to the phonograph and shuts it off, then moves to his desk behind you.  His chair creaks as he slumps into it, and you hear him sigh heavily before he rolls a drawer open and withdraws the book, plopping it onto the blotter.

"You coming?"

You stare straight ahead at his bed, but aren't really seeing it.

You're remiss to leave this spot, because that would be admitting that it's over, that you went for it and got crushed and you're fucking _destroyed_ by his rejection, and you can't just sit casually with him right now and read as if nothing just happened.

You still have the key to your cell.

You could leave.

Just leave without another word, forget him and blow him off as easily as he's done it to you, stab him straight through and make him feel as unneeded as you are.

The recruits from your class arrive in the morning, anyway.  Your two lives don't need to converge, because you don't need to pick this one at all, no qualms about your alliances or priorities.  You knew nothing would ever come of this anyway, why were you stupid enough to believe even for a moment that it would?  You've had plenty of friends all along and you really _don't_ need him anymore.  You're not sure you ever did.

You did, though.

And you do.

And you can't hurt him, not when he's let you in so close and allowed you to see so much, not now that you've come so far.

He pulled you in.  You know you're not wrong about that.  But he chickened out at the last second.  You don't know why, but you're certain you're seeing things properly, and you're really being pretty fucking selfish in expecting him to move at your pace.

You take the brown armchair he found for you and drag it to his side of the desk, sitting beside him and perching on an ankle as you look at the pages.  You don't even sigh.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wild COCKBLOCK appeared!! ...sorry about that. I hope this chapter makes up for it, comparatively short as it is. Levi's perspective comes in with another one-shot which takes place after this chapter, so you'll find out what the hell he's thinking and why he's acting so strangely.
> 
> Fanart for this chapter comes from [Cato](http://catos.co.vu/post/68294339758), and I seriously just sat there staring at my screen and whining for about an hour because he's one of my favorite blogs jfc

He's rereading the story he'd attempted to share with you last night — you can tell because you remember something about a lion — but you're just as unfocused now as you'd been then.

You have no idea how to interpret his signals.

He's set up this nice evening for you, and apparently planned it all day based on his advanced preparation of the invitation.  He fashioned an elaborate meal for you, he set up the phonograph — why? for you, or to listen to music as he cooked? — he called for proper dress, he was _about to kiss you_ … and then he backed out.

You don't know why.  You'd honestly believed it was okay, that he wanted it as much as you do, and his rejection has left you swimming in an ocean of confusion.

Now he has an arm slung around your shoulders, his jacket removed and folded carefully over the armrest, and has you hold the book up while his finger slides under the letters he reads.  His fingertips trace the seam around your shoulder.

It's as if the moment never occurred.

Was he surprised to find himself not ready?  Does he feel anything for you at all?  Or was he swept up in a moment he had never intended to let go so far in the first place?  His signals are so mixed you could run them through a sifter for the next week and you'd still be no closer to separating them.

"Eren."

You're startled out of your thoughts, and you splutter for a response, but he cuts through you.

"I asked if you wanted to take over, but I don't think you have the slightest clue where I am."

He's removed his finger from the page, and he's right, you weren't paying attention at all.  You have no idea which line was the last one you saw him trace.

"No, sir," you murmur to the desk.

"Are you okay?"

His question is so muted you're not sure you heard it properly, and even then, it catches you by surprise.  "Yeah?  I… guess so, I mean…"  Your arms feel awkward holding the book, so you lay it on the desk and pull your hands into your lap.  You know what you want to ask, but you don't know if you can, and you really don't think you _should_ , but some part of you pushes you forward, because you desperately have to know what the hell is going on.  "Major Hanji said you might have… feelings.  For me."

His chuckle doesn't convey enough amusement to override the weight of your question.  "That where you got the vest?"

You blush.  "And the shoes."

"How accommodating of her."

"I didn't mean for her to know, she saw me reading the note and she wouldn't—"

"No, I get it, it's fine.  She's like that."  His sigh is light, but audible enough that you catch it.  He doesn't respond, picking at a creased corner of the page, and his fingers twitch over your sleeve.  The rise and fall of his chest against your arm is erratic, and you realize you might have crossed an even bigger line now with your inquiry than you did with your actions a few minutes ago.

"Never mind, sir.  That's a really loaded question—"

"No, I understand this is confusing and frustrating for you, and I'm… I think you deserve an answer there."  Fingers shaking, you muster the audacity to rest your hand on his thigh, gently scratching the twill of his slacks.  He leans into you with another sigh.  "I'm… very attached to you.  That's all the more I'm able to say right now."

"It's fine, Captain," you murmur, "you don't have to say anything, and you don't have to feel anything either."  Your stomach is flipping, and you wish you could make him say more, but even if you wanted to be a terrible excuse for a person and push him, there's no way you could wrest anything further from him.  You've seen enough of him to know that when he shuts down, he shuts down hard.  "Look, you're not obligated to do anything to appease me just because I ask.  And my life and sanity don't rest on how you act toward me.  So there's nothing to worry about.  It's fine, I'll be okay."

"Yes, but…"  His hand tightens on your shoulder.  "I have a responsibility to take care of you, and whether it's contractually binding or not, I feel that my duties include emotional sculpting.  I should never have allowed the situation to escalate, and I don't mean to hurt you, but I'm… I really was not sure what to—"

"Oh God, no, stop," you cut in, shutting your eyes against his words, because this is too awkward to handle.  He shouldn't be apologizing for your fuck-up.  "I'm the one who should be sorry, sir, I was way out of line."

"You weren't, though," he mumbles, and your eyes widen under scrunched brows.  "You were just reading the room.  I made the situation what it was."

Suddenly, you'd be much happier to follow his initial game plan and ignore that anything ever happened, because this conversation is too mortifying.  "Look, room reading or whatever be as it may, you're my guardian and my commanding officer.  I guess you… can tell what I'm feeling?  Because you said I'm not subtle…"  Your face burns so hot it's uncomfortable.  "But that doesn't matter, because I'm not supposed to be feeling it.  So we'll just pretend that I'm not and that I didn't attempt to do anything about whatever I'm definitely not feeling, and no one has to apologize for anything.  Okay?"

He stares at you, and while you've gotten pretty good at reading his subtle expressions, you can't decipher this one.  His head shakes minutely and he lets out a heavy sigh.  "Still so stupid."  You're inclined to be offended because hey, that was a serious apology and weighted confession right there, but he squeezes your shoulder and jostles you lightly.  "Fucking adorable."

You are so lost, someone should put you on a milk carton.

He tells you to start at the beginning "for the third goddamn time," so you do, and though it takes you an excess of ten minutes to get into the swing of it, you're eventually able to read at a pace that doesn't completely embarrass and disappoint you.  His arm stays around your shoulders.

You think it's safe to say you have absolutely no idea what is happening with him.  So, as you've avowed to do numerous times in the past few days and keep reneging on your own promise, you decide to not attempt to predict or assume anything regarding him and just go with the flow.

The flow seems to involve you zoning out or drifting off every time you read this fairy tale, because Levi nudging your shoulders is what jolts you upright and makes you realize you've been dreaming about the progression of the story rather than actually reading it and pulls the words "What, I'm awake" from you without stopping to check them at your brain for processing first.

Levi snorts, rubbing your upper arm, and says, "Go to bed."

You try to say, "No, really, I'm awake," but the words come out so slurred even you can't understand them.  Your head feels like it weighs a hundred kilos.  "Wow." 

"Eren," he chuckles, his hand moving from your arm to your back, and he pats you gently.  "Go to bed."

You debate arguing with him, but at this point, you are so mentally exhausted you can't be bothered to pretend you're not physically drained from the day as well.  Perhaps sleeping on it will make his actions and words make more sense, since he seems to believe you can extrapolate some deeper meaning from them anyway, and you would really love for him to not call you stupid again.  "M'kay."  You push yourself away from the desk and trudge for the door, but halfway there, you turn and garble, "Oh yeah, you have the key—" but he doesn't, you've kept it, and "Oh no I've got it I'm—" but he really should come with you anyway so he can take it back from you, and "Oh but you've gotta.  Come on."

His face is wrinkled with bemusement, and he nods toward his bed.  "I meant there."

You stare in the direction he's indicated, and though you see his bed, it takes you a moment to register the meaning of his words.  "Oh, I'm… again?"

"Of course.  I don't trust that you're awake enough to handle stairs at the moment."

You want to insist that you're fine, but you're having some trouble staying awake where you stand, swaying a bit on your feet.  If you're this out of it now, you don't want to imagine tripping face-first down a flight of flagstones.  "M'kay.  Oh I gotta.  Brush my teeth."

"Please," he agrees, his tone apologetic.  "And wash up a little, if you can."

"Yeah," you mumble, shuffling past his desk and into the washroom.  You wonder, as you brush your teeth and nearly fade out a few times, how the candles get lit every evening, because you have yet to see him do it.  Maybe someone's job is lighting all the headquarter's candles at night?  But that would mean they've seen the inside of his quarters, and this thought irritates you, so you tell yourself he lights them before you arrive every night and refuse to let yourself concoct any other possibilities.

You strip off your vest and shirt, and as you do, you notice that your clothes strewn around the room this morning have vanished.  You wonder where they went, make a mental note to ask him, and promptly forget about it.

Washing your face and pits never feels good with ice cold groundwater, but short of boiling it on his portable cooker, you aren't sure what more you can do.  It's a good idea, though, one you'll have to bring up with him.  You forget that mental note as well.

You step out of your shoes and slacks, and collecting your clothes in your arms, you amble out of the washroom and ask him what you're supposed to do with them.

"The hamper's in there," he says, and you note that he's already put away the book and is going over some paperwork with his inkwell pen in hand.  You spin and drag yourself back into the washroom and notice the wicker basket on the opposite side of the shower from the linen cupboard, and as you move to drop your clothes into it, you realize your stuff from yesterday is already in there with his.  He's folded it all neatly, but you're too tired to bother, letting them cascade gracelessly out of your hands.

You shamble out of the washroom and take your shoes with you, setting them next to the door.  Standing back up is a task that makes the room spin, and you lean on the wall for a moment as your tired body regains its equilibrium.

Levi notices.  "You okay?"

You nod blearily and mutter "Js'tired," and he chuckles.

"You go on ahead, I'll be there when I'm done."

You keep nodding and stagger mechanically toward the bed, your sanctuary, and lose awareness of the world as you slide under the covers.

You dream of dancing around and around his room, and that he lets you kiss him this time.  His mouth is as soft as his hands and tastes like tea.

You don't know how long it's been when he strips the comforter from your shoulder and jostles your arm, hissing "Eren wake up," but it feels like hours.  The phantom smell of his coat is still strong in your nose.  You blink hard to try to make your vision work better, and then you comprehend your eyes are open just fine and he's put out the candles.  Adjusting to the moonlight, you see that he's already stripped and under the covers, and he's leaning toward you.  You lift your head and hum an inquiry.

"Open your arms."

You're lying on your side, so you aren't completely sure what he means by this, but you lift your free arm into the air as though asking him to skewer you.  Instead, he puts his back to you and scoots his body toward you until his shoulders are flush with your chest.

"Oh."  Your heart has stopped painfully mid-beat, and your arms freeze where they are.  "Hi sir."

"Hey there."  He tugs the cover up to his shoulder, replacing it on your own, and adjusts the position of your elbow under his neck.  He grunts at you when your arms remain stiff and uncooperative, and he poses you like a doll, bending your arms to situate your hands where he wants them around his body.

You were not truly awake until this moment.

You're still not completely conscious, apparently, because you're bold enough to slip one hand under his waist and sling the other over his chest to wedge it beneath his arm and hug him tightly against you, molding your form against the strong shapes of his back.  At this angle, his normally sculpted stomach has relaxed into little rolls, bunching under your forearm into the cutest squishy belly in the world.  You trace the creases of his tummy and the outline of his bellybutton, tangling your fingers in the coarse bead of hair that surrounds it, and he nestles his head back against your forehead, rubbing the velvet of his shaved hair against your skin.

The crook of his neck is smushed into your nose, and you can smell the tea of his soap and the twill and mothballs of his jacket and a trace of something else, something that smells like wood or pine needles or maybe both.  You're sure it's premeditated — that is, it's not a scent he emanates naturally — but you don't know why he would have applied it when you can only smell it from so close.

Behind it all, you can detect the aroma you picked up this morning, something warm and cottony and savory, and you realize it's the raw scent of his flesh.

You swallow hard around your tongue and wonder if he tastes the same as he smells.

Clearly, you are still not totally awake, because you're dumb enough to shift your face and breathe into his skin, "I kind of want to kiss your neck right now."

He stiffens under your touch, but you keep caressing his stomach and the soft underbelly of his upper arm.  "Why?"

Despite his tension, his tone isn't apprehensive or guarded, just curious, and you shrug and murmur, "Because you asked me up here for a dinner date and we were dressed all fancy and dancing and now you've kept me here on purpose and we're nearly naked in your bed again… I dunno, it just seems like… kind of an intimate moment."

He hums appreciatively.  "I guess it is."

You sigh.  "I'm sorry, that was stupid, I'll shut up and sleep."

"No, Eren, it's…"  He turns his head a bit, as if he could see you from this angle, and he whispers, "It's okay."

You aren't sure if this means he's giving you the go-ahead, or if he's simply telling you not to feel ashamed, so you do nothing.  The mellow scent of his skin is both soothing and thrilling, instilling you with calm resolve and heightening your senses simultaneously.  Slowly, his shoulder dips down and his head tilts away, exposing his throat and stretching the crook of his neck into a smooth, clear line, and it sends a jolt of carnal desire shooting through you because you think he's actually inviting your attentions with no intent to stop you this time.

You're not going to be held accountable for misreading, though.

"Oh no," you mutter, "nope, I'm not going by body language anymore, you gotta tell me what you want."

His next breath is shaky and too deep, and you feel his heart skip under your palm.  It pounds faster and harder until it feels as though he's been sprinting, and the wave of primal temptation in you begins to recede at his obvious fear and hesitation.

You start to say _never mind I'm obviously really tired_ , but he murmurs, "Do it."

His heart knocks harder against your hand, and you whisper, "Are you sure?"

He nods, the velvet of his hair tickling the tip of your nose, and his voice is steadier and more firm this time when he repeats, "Do it."

His skin is starting to tremble under your hands, and you don't know what's gotten into him but you know for damn sure you're not going to do anything you aren't completely positive he wants.  "No, it… you don't have to do that, don't worry about it, it's okay, I'm jus—"

"Eren."  His voice is almost cutting now, and it stops you cold.  "Do it."  He licks his lips and swallows hard, and his next word is barely a breath.  "Please."

He's still shaking, his heart still hammering, but you trust that he knows what he's doing.  Your arms tighten around him in reassurance, and you breathe into his skin, "Okay."

Your lips brush over him, and he's so soft, the invisible fine hairs of his neck smooth and delicate on your mouth.  For a moment, you nuzzle his skin gently, and his breath hitches.  A hand shoots up to grip yours against his chest.  Your mouth hovers a millimeter off his neck.  Your pulse is as harsh as his, thumping uncomfortably on your lungs, and for a split second, you become aware that if you do this now, if you summon the courage and breach this line, there's no going back.

You press your lips to him, careful and venerating.

His breath pours out in a shivering sigh, his hand clenching, and you splay your fingers to allow him room to interlace them with his own, and he squeezes your hand hard as your mouth finds purchase again, more deliberately this time.

You feel as though someone has lit a fuse under your sternum.

This meager amount of contact isn't enough, and your lips part as you kiss him once more, giving gentle suction and bringing the taste of him onto your tongue in bright points that crack the dam of your yearning.  Your body curls around him, one thigh sliding between his legs, and you plant a slow, full line of kisses down the curve of his neck, drawing gasps from him and, in a breathy pitch that undoes you completely, your name.

You latch onto the sensitive spot of the bend in his neck, opening your mouth wider and tracing your tongue over his bare skin.  He moans, free hand flying into your hair and tugging a sharp fistful, anchoring your head.  You bite down a little, and he positively writhes in your arms, panting and whining your name as you pull his flesh into your mouth, more and more, harder and harder until your tongue is filled with his skin and the taste of him floods your senses.  He tastes _exactly_ as good as he smells and more, salty and piquant and ambrosial.  He arches into the curve of your body, and where your thigh meets his underwear, you can feel the heat and pressure of a growing erection.  You grind your leg over it and are rewarded with a shout, his head tipping back against your cheek.  You growl into his neck, and he ruts against your thigh, his beautifully rounded ass crushing against your hips and hand in your hair pressing you even tighter into him as he fights for air and groans from your ministrations, _Eren, oh God, Eren_.

His arm begins to shake and go weak, slackening his hold on your head, and you release the suction on his neck, drawing your lips to a close so as to take up all the spittle you've left on his flesh.  You swallow the taste of him and kiss the spot softly, sliding back up his neck to leave a long, slow kiss behind his ear.  He whimpers, and you bury your nose under his earlobe, sighing contentedly into his skin.  The sleep he pulled you out of drags you back down, and you drift away again easily, hugging your arm around his middle and breathing him in as he shivers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_STOP. There is a Levi one-shot after this chapter. Before you read the next chapter,[read Green Light ⇒](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1056680)_ **


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last, it is revealed that Levi does in fact have a past.
> 
> One day, I will stop closing chapters with the viewpoint character falling asleep and opening them with him waking up. One day, I will stop using beaten-to-death cop-out tropes and start using real chapter hooks. One day.
> 
>  **Before you read this chapter, be sure you've read[Green Light](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1056680).** It takes place between this chapter and the last, and explains Levi's strange behavior over the past couple chapters. 
> 
> Be sure to bookmark the [entire series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/57837) to keep track of all the updates for this arc.

The Levi of your dream is far kinder, yet simultaneously far more cruel, than the Levi you know.

He tugs you into the supply closet and slams your back against the closed door, but his kisses are soft and sweet; his hands rip at your clothes like a wolf tearing at a throat, but his fingertips over your hips and your backside are gentle and indulgent.

He lets you hold him, lets you cradle his form in your arms and thrust shallowly into his palm, whispers about how cute you are and kisses your collarbones, but when you reach climax and attempt to pull him closer to you, he swears at you and digs a sharp elbow into your ribs.

"Oi!" he snaps.  "Wake the fuck up!"

Huh?  But you—

Your eyes crack open to the smell of his bedsheets in the dark and a strange trace of vinegar.

Being dragged out of a dream disorients your senses, and you attempt to communicate, but all that comes out is a gurgle.  His body twists in your arms, and you realize you're pulling him against you like a rubber band, and release him.  His hand shoves at your shoulder.

"Eren!  Fucking wake up."

"M'wake."

"You don't fucking sound 'wake."

His tone is never this derisive, not in earnest, and it rouses you more effectively because if he's this upset, there must be a reason.  "You okay, w's wrong?"

"You just fucking creamed yourself in my bed."

His hand pushing at your shoulder is trying to shove you onto your back.  You notice that another hand is cupping your underwear over your softening dick, trying to contain a damp sticky patch that leaches slowly into the cloth.

The grogginess lifts like a water balloon to the face, and you suddenly understand the entire situation.

Your stomach swoops and flips and you think you might actually throw up.

You clap your hands over his, and he yanks his away from the mess now that you've taken control of it, but you ignore him, twisting to bury your face in the pillow.

Your heart races, your breath catching with the edge of nausea, and a tremble wracks your whole body and erupts from your mouth with a screech of "Are you FUCKING SERIOUS!"

Tears fly from your eyelashes and trickle down your nose.

You knew it was a bad idea to stay here, you knew it, you fucking _knew_ you'd cock it up somehow, and sure e-fucking-nough, what better way to shoot yourself in the face than to have a wet dream in the bed of your hero after _finally_ making a successful move on him.  Guess who's never getting to come within arms' reach of him again?  You kick the mattress, kick yourself in the ankle, tangle the comforter around your shins and kick everything you can reach, screaming your humiliation into the pillow.

A hand rakes slowly through your hair.

"Eren…"

You know he's talking, but you don't hear him, your heart pounding so hard it sounds like a steam engine in your ears, your breathing too fast and ragged for you to process anything outside your head, your muffled whimpering escalating in frenzy as the damp patch under your hands expands, _you can't be serious, you can't be fucking serious, why god dammit why._

"Eren, sweetheart—"

And now he's condescending.  Fucking _hell_ , you've demolished every possible chance of him ever seeing you as an equal or a partner or _anything_ other than a fucking _kid_.  You shriek into the pillow and kick yourself, accidentally glancing off his shin, and your stomach twists into a knot — awesome, yet _one more thing_ you've done to mortally wrong him.  Can tonight possibly get any better.

"I'm sorry Eren, I want to let you calm down, I really do, but I can't convey how much I'm going to freak the fuck out if you don't get that out of my bed right now."

You throw the covers off and stomp toward the bathroom, containing the mess in your briefs, before you've completely regained your equilibrium, and you have to lean on the counter for balance after you shuck off your underwear and drop them in the basin.  You hear the bed creak as he moves, and you kick the door shut behind you.  No possible way in hell are you letting him near you like this.  You don't want his sympathy.  In fact, you're pretty sure his sympathy would literally kill you.

The offensive stink of your underwear starts to drift into your senses, but you're not as angry about it as you should be because the sink smells so strongly of vinegar it's making you a little dizzy.

He taps fingertips on the door.  "Eren, can I come in?"

"No!"

He sighs.  "You just wash up and go back to bed, I'd like to be able to clean the… rest.  Since I know I can do it right."

"Go away."  You want to scream at him and throw things, you want to jump out the window, but you stand there shaking because of all the things you could do, you'd rather not do them where he has any ability to see you do it.  "Can you take me back to my room."  He doesn't respond, and the silence drags out long enough to tug your words out like a fishing line pulling salmon from a stream.  " _Please_ , Captain, I don't want to be here anymore, I wanna go back to bed."

He says nothing, but there's a scratching noise on the door, the soft track of fingernails trailing down the wood.  "I can imagine," he murmurs.  "But I'm sorry.  I'm too selfish, and I don't want you to go yet."

You smack the countertop and lean forward over it, the tears still running down your cheeks.  "Why?"

He sighs again, and his voice is gentle, like fingertips tracing your shoulder blades.  "If you use the vinegar, that'll clean it right out."  His bare footsteps recede over the wood, and the bedsprings whine as he crawls over them.

He's not letting you leave.

You sink to the floor and put your back to the vanity, hugging your knees to your chin and quietly crying off the edge of your humiliation.

Why won't he let you go?  After what you've just done, how young and _stupid_ you've just proved you are, why would he want to keep you around?  Is it because he let you kiss his neck and now he feels like he has to baby you?

…holy shit he let you kiss his neck _he let you kiss his neck_.

Screw everything else, why did he let you do _that?_

When confronted with Hanji's suppositions about his feelings toward you, he'd shut down, but… is it possible he really does like you?

Does that mean his "sweetheart" earlier wasn't supposed to be condescending?

Your breath rushes out in a sigh, barely forming the word "shit."

You run your hands through your hair and let out a sigh through pursed lips, and you realize that you are far too worked up and under-informed to make sense of anything going on right now, and you should focus on getting one thing done at a time until either Levi finds the will to talk to you about it, or the answers reveal themselves in due course.

You scrub your hands and gently wash your crotch and inner thigh where the stain had settled, but upon contacting water, the splotch turns into glue and soap doesn't do much to get rid of it.  You find the vinegar in the linen cupboard — at least you hope it's vinegar, it looks like the vinegar bottle from yesterday and it smells like vinegar, but it's significantly emptier now — and rinse your skin with that instead, and are pleasantly surprised to find how well it works.  Once you've washed away as much of the smell as you can and dried, you pour it over your underwear, plugging the sink and leaving the cloth to soak.

You push the window open a crack to help ventilate, because now everything smells like pickles and you're pretty sure the odor would make you both sick.

When you've done all you can to clean everything that needs it, you open the door and peek out.

He's lit the candle on his side of the bed and is shuffling through a file, but at the croak of the door hinges, he looks up at you with a focus so doting and entire that it makes your heart skip.  "Feeling better?"

You're sure to hide the rest of your body behind the wall.  "I don't have any clean underwear up here."

He shrugs, stacking the file neatly and placing it on the nightstand.

You're not sure what that gesture is supposed to mean.  "What do I do?"

He licks his fingers.  "Come back to bed."  The wick hisses as he pinches it, his corner of the room thrown into shadow.  "Unless you want to wear some of mine, but I'm pretty sure it won't fi— well… it might fit you, actually.  Your hips are wider than mine but you're skinny as fuck; what's your measurement?"

You stare at him, letting your eyes adjust, until he catches on that you're watching.  "I'm not using your underwear."

He snorts.  "Why?"

You let your mouth fall open as you lean on the doorframe.  "What do you mean why?  Because how would I get it back to you?  Why would I put on your clean underwear just to take it off and put it in the basket in a couple hours?  Just… why would… why?  It's your _underwear_ I'm not gon—"

"Holy shit," he laughs, "I get it, it's fine."  He lowers his face to grin at you from under his eyebrows.  "Want me to ask Hanji to lend you more clothes?"

"Christ," you mutter, and he bursts out laughing.  The high rippling sound you've come to love so much tugs at your chest and makes you remember your dance, the kiss you were denied and the one you were permitted, and you want to run to the bed and crawl over him and claim the proper kiss you crave.  But you're naked.  "What… what do I do?"

"Exactly what I said."  He waves you over.  "I'm fucking tired and I don't care what you're wearing."

The implication of his words sinks in at last, and your face burns.  "I'm not coming over there _naked_ , holy shit."

His hands slap over the comforter in defeat.  "Well if you don't want to be naked and you don't want to wear clothes, what are you gonna do?  Sleep in the tub until the hot water comes on and I feel like getting your shit?"

You're seriously considering it.

He sighs so hard it's almost a growl, and with an incoherent grumble, he leans forward and shuffles around under the covers.  After fishing for a moment, his hand emerges, rising lazily into the air with his slate grey boxer briefs waving like a flag, the waistband hooked over his finger.

Every drop of blood in your body rushes to your face in a single heartbeat.

He tosses the underwear toward the foot of the bed, and it lands on the floor, almost in the exact spot where you'd attempted to kiss him.

You stare at it wordlessly.

He's fucking naked under there right now.

"There," he proclaims, "we even?"

You stare at him as though he has something hanging out of his nose.  "No!  How does this solve literally anything?"

"Because now we're both naked and uncomfortable.  Are you coming back now?  Can we move on from this juncture?"

His face is far too smug, but also nearing the point of exasperation you don't want to cross for fear of upsetting him irrevocably, and you have no idea for the life of you what to do.  You guess you should just give up and join him, but somehow, you hadn't envisioned your first time naked with him to go anything like this.  Not that you'd really put much thought into envisioning anything, but you'd hoped it would be more… sexy.

"Eren," he sighs, "I'm going to sleep.  You can join me if you want to.  Up to you."  And with that, he slumps down in the bed and pulls the comforter over his shoulder.

You groan and bury your face in your hands.  It would be rude to leave him hanging, especially after the evening you've shared and all the progress you've made, but you're so embarrassed and you still can't help but feel like you've backslid tremendously, despite him admitting his attachment to you… your fingers drag down your face, and you grumble, "Okay, but don't look."

He snorts and bursts out laughing, and you have to call out several times that you're serious, really don't, before he waves to indicate that he hears you.

You cup a hand over your junk anyway and scuttle to the bed.  It's freezing cold in here now that you've cracked a window, and you hope the spot you abandoned on the bed is still warm.

It is, but only a little, and he's so close still that you're hesitant to get any closer to its epicenter.

He grunts with wordless frustration and reaches blindly behind himself in the dark, groping under the sheets until he finds your forearm, and he tugs on you so sharply you yelp.  He keeps pulling at you like a child yanking at his mother's sleeve, and you whine, "What do you want?"

"Get over here."

Your face is burning so hot it's traveling into your shoulders. "Why?"

"Because I said so."

You feel the need to explain the situation for him one more time, because he doesn't seem to have understood it adequately.  "Captain, we're naked."

"So?"

"So I'm not gonna spoon you while we're both butt fucking naked!"

He snorts, and he can't stop snorting, and you're pretty sure his pillow is half-covered in spittle spray by the time he calms himself enough to speak.  "Interesting choice of words."

"Shut up, okay, I'm not coming over there."

He considers this for a moment.  "Fine."  And he uses your arm as a guide to back himself up against you.  His ass bumps your dick, and you make a noise you are not at all proud of, but he doesn't stop.  "Fuck, it's cold over here.  Can you _please_ bump over where it's warm?"

"Captain—"

His sigh interrupts you.  "If you're really, genuinely too uncomfortable for this, I'll stop.  I'm pushing because I detect you're too prudent to overstep boundaries, and if I insist upon it, you'll realize that it's okay.  But if I'm wrong about that, feel free to tell me.  I don't want to push you into a place you don't want to be."

If this blush persists much longer, you might just pass out from blood displacement rather than actual sleepiness.  "I just… I don't want to make… I'm—"

"That's what I thought," he cuts in kindly, stroking the back of your hand where he's arranged it under his neck.  "It's okay, Eren, I promise.  I'm not gonna have an aneurism because you have a penis and it happens to exist in a space my body also occupies."

"I just," you stammer, "you… you do know, right, that I want to… like."

"Yes," he chuckles, "I know.  Remember what Hanji told you?"

You do, but you don't want to be presumptuous about it, because he'd been really noncommittal.  "It's just, I… you've been really touchy since you said you couldn't tell me anything about how you're feeling, and I don't want to do anything you don't want, and since I don't know what you want, that… makes it really hard."  Your fingers twitch in his grasp.  "I'm a lot more direct than this maybe-flirting-maybe-not thing."

"Hmm, yeah," he muses, "it's almost as though you and I handle our emotions differently.  Like we're completely separate people or something."

You want to giggle and tell him he's right and that you're being unfair.  Instead, something much more stupid comes out.  "You called me sweetheart."

"Oops."  His tone is sardonic, and he gives your arm a gentle tug, and you suppose that's all the more he's going to say about that.  Taking into account everything he's said and done in addition to Major Hanji's observation, and attempting to think about it all within the context of extrapolation like a mature person, you begin to realize that perhaps, for all Levi's bluntness, his tendency to shun people could make this the one arena in which he's uniquely unable to be honest and straightforward, even with himself, from sheer lack of practice.

Perhaps he's doing the best he can, here.

It's certainly not the approach you'd prefer, to play things by ear and not maintain any sort of line of verbal communication, but making things more difficult for him is a pretty awful thing to do and would only make things more difficult for you in the long run too.

You scoot up behind him onto the warm patch of the sheets, wrapping your arms around him as they'd been before he'd elbowed you awake, and try to ignore the press of his thick, plush butt cheeks against your hips.

Yeah you're not going to be able to ignore that.

Hiding your face in the back of his neck, you whisper, "I'm sorry if I get a boner."

You can't tell if his noise is a laugh or a sigh.  "Just don't spray the bed again."

"No promises."

"Excellent."

"I kinda want to touch your butt."

He turns his head as if he could see you hiding behind his neck, and he stares at the ceiling for a moment, his breath controlled and regular as he mulls it over.  Then he murmurs, "Little too far," and you're quick to mumble yep absolutely got it totally fine and burrow your hips closer instead, reveling in the squish of his flesh against you.

You can't be sure, but as you drift off for the third time, you think you hear him chuckle.

You're sure you dream of something, but you don't remember what.

By the time you wake, the bar of sunlight is already nearly gone from the opposing wall, and though he remains in the same position within your embrace, Levi has taken the file back up from the nightstand and is paging through it again.

His voice buzzes through his back into your chest.  "And he lives."

You don't ask how he knew you were awake; if you genuinely do snore as he professes, you're sure the end of it is indicative enough.  "Whatcha reading?"

"Brushing up on spatial and timing limitations for the expedition."

You hum contemplatively and bury your nose in the crook of his neck, trying to read over his shoulder.  The print is a bit too small for you to make out.

"Good morning, by the way."

You turn your head away from him to yawn because somehow you get the impression that he wouldn't like feeling your morning breath on him.  "You could've woken me if you were bored."

"I'm always bored," he murmurs, but he puts the papers down and twists to face you.  As he moves, you notice something that makes your stomach turn inside-out.  He takes note of it on your face and stills, propped on an elbow, his eyes wide under worried eyebrows.  "What?"

Your mouth has fallen open in horror and it takes you a moment to figure out how to make it work.  "There's a… your…"

He follows the line of your stare and realizes you're looking at his collar, and he snorts as he slides down the sheets to throw an arm around you.  "Yeah, thanks for that.  It'll fit under my shirt, don't worry."

The mark you've made is huge and redder than a beet, and though you're sure his shirt will hide it now, there will doubtlessly come a time when he wears something different.  "Forever?"

He raises an eyebrow at you.  "They go away, dumbass."  The relief that floods you nearly makes your knees shake, and you murmur something unintelligible and thankful as you sag into his embrace.  "Give it a couple weeks.  Have you never seen a hickey before?"  You shake your head, giving him wide startled eyes, and he laughs at you, pulling you closer.  Giving in to the fading adrenaline, you nestle down to his chest and tuck your head under his chin, slipping your arm under his waist and tangling your legs with his.  His chuckle resonates in his chest against your ear, and you cave to the temptation to touch him, trailing your fingers up his side and drawing a circle around his hip.  You resolutely ignore that your chest is fixed against the coarse bead of hair leading down from his bellybutton, and that his leg cast over your hip pins your stomach right up against his junk.  You are absolutely not scrupulously controlling your breathing to avoid putting further pressure on it.

He makes a sound of discomfort, and your hand freezes for a moment as if your touching is the cause of it, but his body tenses in a way that assures you it's not.  "You okay?"

"Yeah, just got really painful gas this morning."

"Oh, shit," you murmur, nuzzling his collarbone and attempting to ignore the implication that he's probably passing it under the covers.  You haven't heard much about Levi from your squad mates, but among the few topics was the undisputed fact that his flatulence is legendary.

He chuckles.  "Yeah, that part's gonna be fun too."

For some reason, you feel honored that he's chosen to talk about his bodily functions in casual conversation.  Perhaps it's because of his cold anger yesterday when you'd poked fun at him for it.  "Is it that type of gas that feels like actual shards of glass?"  He nods, his chin rubbing your head, and you groan, "God, I hate that kind."

"Yeah," he sighs, "it's only marginally worse than my normal gas though, so I'll deal.  It's just uncomfortable now that it's moving around."

You're concerned that his gas is normally pretty bad, but you're not sure what to say about it.  "Do you need to be on your back?"

"Nah, it'll pass."  He snorts.  "Pass."

You pinch his waist.  "You're hilarious."

"I know."

His hands card through your hair, stopping to tug gentle handfuls, and it feels like a scalp massage.  You almost forget how to make your mouth move.  "Was it the pork?"

"Gravy, more likely," he muses, "not used to that much fat.  Gonna be a fiery shit.  And shitting is always so much fun."

"Oh yeah," you chuckle, not stopping to think about the meaning behind his words, "my favorite activity of the day.  Nothing so exhilarating as sitting on the pot.  Might as well throw a party in there while I'm at it."

His fingernails slide down your head to the back of your neck, and he toys with the fine hairs on your nape.  "Somehow, I don't think our sarcasm is coming from the same place."

You tense, having forgotten the reason for his sensitivity regarding his bowel movements, and murmur, "Oh… right, you don't like to talk about it."

He makes a sound of recollection, carefully pinching your hairs between his fingers.  "I also said I'd tell you later."

You remember, but you don't want to press him for information he doesn't want to share, and you fidget with discomfort.  The motion crushes your stomach against his dick.  You try to pull back, but he's hugging you around the shoulders and his leg fastens your hips in place, so you hope you're not blushing as badly as you think you are.  "You don't have to."

"I know that," he mutters.  "What, you gonna hold me at gunpoint and wring it out of me?"

You give a giggle that is probably too high and nervous for a topic like taking a shit.  He draws his upper body away from you, and you do the same, scooting up a bit to return to his eye level and internally sighing with relief that you're not squished up against his privates.  The relief is short-lived, though, because now his other thigh between your legs has settled just close enough to your own junk that you can feel his skin tickling your hair.

You attempt to ignore all this and listen to him, because given the topic and his quiet rage toward it earlier, you suspect you're about to hear a story he doesn't like to tell.

"People know," he murmurs, "in their heads, that I was a street criminal.  But they don't really take the time to think about what that means."  He pauses to wet his lips and swallow, his eyes watching your mouth, your throat, his own hands outlining your collarbones.  "In the capital, you don't start off with the secure comfort of a private home life and move to a life of stealing to eat, living in gutters and controlling crime rings.  If you start out in one place, generally, you stay there.  And wherever you end up, it's more than likely the same place you started."

You process what this means, and you mumble, "So you lived on the street your whole life, until the Corps."

He nods.  "I was born there.  Don't know why, don't know where either of my parents were from, don't know where either of them went.  But I never had access to a steady source of food until I learned how to steal the right way.  Since fresh food can only be stolen from limited sources, after a while, you _will_ get caught, so I had to steal material goods and pawn them to buy food instead of stealing the food itself.  And I never had enough until I was older and smarter, and by then, the damage had been done."

You frown at him, petting his waist.  "Damage?"

"When you're young and still growing, you need access to constant nutrition, or it messes with you.  You don't notice right away, but one day when you're twelve it occurs to you that you haven't grown any taller in at least a year, and one day when you're fifteen you realize your reflection hasn't changed since then either.  And every time you do manage to get food, your body isn't used to handling it, so digestion rips you apart, literally, and leaves you bleeding and scarred.  Even once you've wised up your game and weaseled yourself into the higher-ups in the royal family, after you've become the top runner for the most reputed black arms dealer in the capital and you've earned a fearsome reputation on your own to boot, and all this has gotten you steady access to readily available meals dripping with sugar and fat, you still don't ever feel clean or healthy or… right."

His story sinks in your stomach like rocks dropping into a pond, because _now_ you understand why he's so short, why his face is so youthful, and why he's so physically fit and has a permanent scowl etched over his features — he stopped aging from malnutrition, and he became tough and strong and angry to overcome the great injustice dealt against him by the world.

"And you're shocked to find that still, after you've been picked up by some military chess-master with a game plan for your sticky fingers and bulldog temperament, and he's given you a clean slate and an honorary rank and you're as sanitized and well-fed and healthy as you've always wanted, you still can't erase the decades of scar tissue you've accumulated."

He sighs, stroking your cheek with the back of his hand, and you stare at him, feeling as though you've fallen on top of a wrought iron fence.

"And that's why it takes me an hour to shit."

You want to hold him, to wrap him up and cradle him and tell him how sorry you feel, but you know he would kick you away and hate himself for telling you.  What you're really grateful for is not simply that you know all this now, but that he allowed you to know.  You take his hand and interlace his fingers with yours.  "Thank you for telling me that."

"Of course," he murmurs, watching your fingers as they slowly rub over his knuckles.  "You wanted to know."

"Yeah, but you don't like to talk about it, so…"  You shrug a shoulder.  "You must really trust me."

"I do."

You're caught up watching your interlocked hands too, and you don't notice right away that his gaze has shifted to your face.  The grey of his eyes is especially warm with the sunlight stretched across your bodies, the striations detailed in high contour mere inches from your face.

You try to picture him an older man.

You can't.

Regardless of why he's aged so differently or the reasons behind his development, they make him who he is, and you can't imagine him looking any other way than he does now.

Carefully, your fingers trembling with tentative nerves, you bring his hand to your face and press a kiss to the soft vein on the back of it.

He watches you, and a smile graces his mouth as he extracts his fingers from yours and slides them over your cheek to cup your jaw, his thumb migrating to slowly swipe across your mouth.  His movements still, his thumb caught up in touching your lips, tracing the curves of them and settling under them, gingerly pressing them into a pout.  You giggle, and his smile broadens as you lean into his touch.  He plays with your mouth until you plant a kiss on the pad of his thumb, and then his hand slips from your face over your earlobe to cradle the back of your neck.

It doesn't occur to you that he's mimicking the very thing you did to him last night until the tip of his nose brushes yours.

His head is tipping, a smirk playing over his features as he closes the gap between you, his lips parting with a gentle sticking sound as if to breathe you in, and you want to touch him, want to touch his face and his hair and his shoulders and everything but your hands are frozen on his waist, stiffening as if pumped full of metal.  His leg pushes into your crotch as his own molds into your stomach, and with a delicate twist of the hips, he's rolled you onto your back, his weight pressing down on you and his fringe falling over yours.  Your hands scrabble across his back and dig in over his spine, your nails biting into muscle and your breath coming in shallow gasps.  His eyes drift closed, and though your skin is trembling as though charged from within, you allow yours to do the same, your eyelashes fluttering on your cheeks.  His mouth touches yours—

A loud knock at the door jolts him off you, his elbows flying up to protect himself, and Major Hanji's voice shouts from the other side.

"You gonna get up some time today?  It's nearly nine!"

You're not sure whether to thank her for giving you both a last chance at the hot water, or to stab her repeatedly for interrupting, but you slip out from beneath him and splutter something about showers.  His eyes watch you shuffle toward the washroom, roving down your form and back up to meet your burning face.

He ignores Hanji's shouts for the moment, murmuring to you instead.  "I'll join you."

Now you are _really_ not sure whether to thank her or kill her.

Depending how things end up, you might do both.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because every shower scene _has_ to be sexy and not hilarious, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanart from [tingos](http://tingos.tumblr.com/post/68498446453) for this chapter!

You close the door and lean against it, pressing a hand to your chest as though it'll help quell the shaking.

Levi and Hanji's swift murmurs pass through the wood, but only with enough volume to be heard, not enough to be comprehensible, so all you pick up is the tonality of their voices in lieu of the words themselves.  The captain sounds like he's barely restraining from ripping her head off.  Hanji sounds like she couldn't be more pleased with herself.  From the muted quality, you assume he's opened the door and is talking to her face-to-face.

Sparks crackle in your lungs, and you wonder if he put any clothes on first.

You're not sure yet whether his comfortable nudity with you indicates how close he feels to you, or if it's something he's naturally inclined to do.  Given his assurance of the other day that he doesn't normally invite people into his room, let alone his bed, you'd like to believe it's the former.  The twisting of your gut, however, isn't so easily convinced.

You have no right to be so possessive of him, and you should really take advantage of the limited hot water you have left.  If everyone else is done showering already, there should still be a decent pool of water left passing through the heating tank, so with luck, you'll both be able to speed-bathe.

You're just closing the glass door behind you when the washroom door opens.  He's donned the underwear he threw to the floor last night, but nothing else, and he bristles with goosebumps the moment he shuts the door.  "The fuck's it so cold in here?"

"Smelled too much like vinegar," you call from inside the shower.  "I cracked a window."

He shoots you a judgmental scowl and pulls the glass pane closed.

"Sorry."

"Start the water."

You obey as he strips and moves to the basket, and with a groan, he folds and rearranges all the clothes you dumped in there haphazardly last night.  The water is steaming by the time he comes in and snaps the door shut behind himself, and you stare at the soap bottles and the water dial and everywhere but at his naked form.

You nearly jump out of your skin when his hip bumps into yours, knocking you aside.  He gives you a playful grin as he steps into the spray and runs hands through his hair, and you are not going to watch the veins ripple over the muscles of his arms, you are not going to watch the rivulets of water passing over his hair and down to his throat, you are absolutely not mesmerized by the changing shapes of his chest while his arms move, you are not caught up drawing a line with your eyes down the curve of his back that blooms into the perky swell of his ass.

…oh _God_ you can see his ass.

Suddenly the water is hitting you in the face, and you flinch out of the way to Levi's laughter as he redirects the spray at you with his hands.

"Dude!" you shout, "knock it off!"

"Quit ogling me like a lovestruck teenager."

You block the water with your elbow, but it doesn't do much good.  "I am a lovestruck teenager!"

"At least you admit it," he laughs, and he steps out of the spray to sort through the bottles.  You take the opportunity to steal the hot water for yourself, having been soaked to a point of chilling.  The heat feels incredible, but you don't want to stand here and revel in it too long, so you ask for the shampoo.  He tells you to hold your hands out.  The viscous substance he pours into your fingers feels more like raw egg than shampoo, but you step out of the water and rub it into your hair anyway.  It doesn't lather, and under the ever-present aroma of tea, you detect the malt of beer.

"Uh… Captain?"

His fingers prod over the back of his head, and he meets your alarmed stare and outstretched hands with a blank gaze.  "How good are you with a battery-powered trimmer?"

"Am I putting beer and eggs on my head?"

"It's good for you.  Can you use one or not?"

You debate whether to press him for information as to why exactly he feels a beer and egg concoction is healthy for your head, but you quickly realize he's not going to understand why you're upset.  You sigh and assure him that if you can't, Auruo probably can.  You begin to step back into the rainfall of water, but his frown stops you.

"Don't tell me that's all you're doing."

You shrug.  "That's all I normally do.  This smells funny, I don't like it."  You go to move again, but he keeps staring at you, his nose wrinkling and a corner of his mouth pulling up, and your stomach flips.  You don't want him to be disgusted by your insufficient hygiene because what if he stops touching you, what if he stops letting you get so close, and you feel something within you give.  You hold your arms out.  "Wash me."

He raises an eyebrow.  "What."

"You know how clean you want me to be, so I think you should do it.  Then I'll know how well is good enough next time."

He stares at you until he realizes you're not kidding, and with a weary sigh, he takes over scrubbing your head for you.  His touch is gentler than you would have expected, but he gets the concoction to lather, and though your eyes are drifting closed and you feel an inappropriate noise of comfort building in your chest, he tells you to rinse up.  His fingernails nudge you in the stomach to hurry it up, and you speed-rinse as best you can to allow him room to step in and rinse his own hair.

He tells you to hold your arms up, and you comply.

The soap he uses on your chest and shoulders is different than the one he uses on your arms, and he selects yet another for your stomach, his fingernails tickling you and making your skin jump.  His mouth turns up in a smirk and his fingers seek out tickle spots deliberately, and you smack at his wrists until he stops.  He also scrubs the belly soap into your underarms, tickling you in points where he shifts your hair around, and you wiggle in place, scrunching away from his touch as if contorting your body will make a difference.  He catches on again and crooks a finger into your armpit, and this time you tell him to stop.  He does, but not before pinching your nipple, and he dodges your attempt to do it back.  You regret not doing it to him yesterday morning when you'd felt the urge.  Though he doesn't actually lather up too differently from how you would, it's nice to feel his hands rubbing over your skin — nice enough, apparently, that your dick approves as well and rises to attention.

As you rinse, he stares down at it with an expression that looks decidedly unimpressed.  "Stop reaching for me, I'm not washing you," he says, and after a blink of confusion, you realize he's _talking to your dick_ and suddenly you can't stop laughing, the absurdity overriding the embarrassment.  You lean an elbow on his shoulder and laugh until you're short of breath, apologizing intermittently, and he keeps staring straight ahead as if completely unaffected.  "You're such a geek, Eren."

Still giggling, you draw back and allow him access to the water so he can rinse his own lathered torso.  "Says the guy talking to a penis."

"You wanna talk to mine?" he offers, gesturing downward.  You don't look.  "It's thinking about popping up there too.  Birds of a feather flock together and all that shit."

"Did you just compare your dick to a creature in flight."

"It's pretty fucking majestic," he says, his voice still deadpan.  You roll your eyes, and he goes still, staring at you with his head tilted.  "You're really not gonna check me out, are you.  You had no qualms about gawking at my ass, but you're not gonna admit that I have a dick?  Really?"

You can feel your face going hot.  You remember wanting to shower with him a few days ago, and you can't say you would've imagined it going anything like this; instead, there would have been plenty of awkward tiptoeing around each other and refusal to admit your nudity.  But he _has_ seen you naked before, when he walked in on you yesterday, and you suppose that since you've spent most of the night mutually naked, he's become desensitized.  "Would it be less awkward if I did?"

"Yes," he replies.  "Undermine the small tension there is by going above and beyond it."

"You're so weird."

"Get an eyeful of my genitals, Eren."

"I'll do it when I'm well and damn ready to," you splutter toward the soap shelf, amazed that he's pushing you so hard.

A hand touches your chin and encourages your face to turn, and then you're looking him dead in the eye as the water cascades over him, following the tracks of his muscles and the contours of his face.  His wet fingers slide easily over your skin, tracing your jaw and your earlobe.  You can't decipher his expression anymore, but it looks a lot like the one he'd had just before you'd tried to kiss him last night.

"Y'know, Captain," you murmur, your voice almost lost in the hiss of the shower, "you look pretty good with your hair pushed back like that."

"So do you."

His thumb swipes over your lips.

You're leaning into him before you know what you're doing, and he's rising to meet you, his other hand coming up to cradle your head and guide you into the tilt he wants, his nose brushing your cheek in the second the stream of water goes abruptly ice cold.

He yelps and you shriek, both of you lurching back, and his body smacks into the glass wall with a defensive elbow over his face while you stagger to the water dial and scramble to shut it off.  You can't move fast enough, your fingers fumbling, and he yells "Turn it off!" before you get your fingers around the handle at last and slam it home.

Your erection has been effectively murdered by cold, and though you're definitely not looking, you can tell from the cant of his hips that he's suffering too.

He glares up at you, tundra groundwater dripping from his fringe, and you snort, giving way to giggles.  It's contagious, and he closes his eyes and chuckles, his shoulders shaking with muted amusement.

After a moment, he sighs, and he gripes, "The universe is determined to cockblock me today, isn't it."

You're not sure what he means by that, but as you edge past him and open the door to retrieve towels for the both of you, the snap of his fingers on your ass cheek makes you squeak and whirl around to stare at him, and the look he's giving you leaves you simultaneously really excited and _really_ fucking confused.

Somehow, you're really looking forward to nightfall.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For someone so adept at gathering intel, Hanji isn't doing a very good job.
> 
> For the record, I don't know why I've decided they have battery-powered hand-razors and not walkie-talkies. That seems like a far more effective use of battery power to me, but alas, they'd rather have pretty hair than convenient communication.

You can't get over how soft your hair feels.

Halfway through breakfast, just as Erd quietly brings up that he thinks he found something of Petra's in the shower this morning and slides a small folded thing made of pale blue cotton out of his inner coat pocket to her embarrassed shrieks, Levi swats your hand away from your fringe, insisting you'll make it greasy if you touch it too much.

"I'm sorry," you whine, trying to go back to your scones and attempting to ignore Petra's screeching and Auruo's coarse laughter.  "It feels so different."

"That's because it's healthy for once, you philistine."

You tune in to Auruo crowing that he'd thought she'd forgotten something during cleaning, but before she launches herself across the table to choke him with his own cravat, you quickly tune back out again because Levi is pilfering jam from your plate.  You shoulder him roughly, reaching for some of his eggs, and in the war between his elbows and yours, he dabs a spot of jam onto the tip of your nose.  You wipe it on his cheek.  He sidearms you in the chin.

Petra has retreated to her seat, red-faced and fuming, and Auruo loosens his cravat with a smug grin.  Erd and Gunther exchange looks of confused exasperation, and you remember thinking at one point that the entire Corps is full of oddballs.  As you clean the jam from the captain's cheekbone, you suppose you're not really in a position to talk.

Levi washes down his mouthful with a gulp of steaming tea and asks, "You still think you can use a battery-powered trimmer?"

You still don't know, actually, but you rub a knuckle over the back of his head and muse, "It does look longer than it was before the tribunal."  Not by much, though, so you're not sure why he's being fussy about it, but it's not your hair.  "I can give it a shot."

"I am overwhelmed by your brimming confidence."

"Yeah thanks, I know."

He turns his face from you with a disdainful eyebrow raised, but you think he might be smiling.

When you're all mostly done, he informs the squad that you've got lunch duty, so you're all required to report back here at one to start preparation.  The others gather their dishes and stand to leave, and as you begin to follow suit, he grips one of your stomach straps and murmurs, "Not you."

You watch the departing backs of the rest of your squad.  "Why not me?"

"Because you're cutting my hair and then I'm taking a shit while you do our laundry."

Petra notices the two of you still seated, and she doubles back to grab your plates and silverware as well with a soft smile, leaving the two of you to talk.  

"Sounds good."

He leads you upstairs to his quarters where you both wash your hands for what seems like an hour, then opens a cabinet under the sink that you hadn't registered before.  He withdraws a sheet of plastic which he wraps around his neck like a cloak, a sharp pair of trimming shears, and a handheld trimmer.  You take the tools into unsteady hands as he straddles the toilet.  You've seen a trimmer used before — haircuts were required in training so your hair couldn't obstruct your vision — but you've never had one used on you, let alone attempted to do it yourself.  It seems fairly simple, though, and the captain provides a few interchangeable comb heads for trimming around his ears and fading a gradient up his neck.

"This probably isn't going to look professional," you notify him, and he shrugs.

"Usually Erwin and I trade haircuts," he says as you rake his hair out of the way and line up the trimmer, "but I don't see the need for it at this point."  You turn it on and promptly clamp your grip down hard because _wow_ the vibration is intense, and with a deep breath, you press it to his scalp and slide it along his head.  Hundreds of tiny hairs tumble to his shoulders like black snow.  "I got the feeling it was mainly just one more way to keep an eye on me as his little pet project, and we fell into a routine.  Now that he trusts me enough, he can get someone else to do it."

His voice is harder to hear over the buzz of the trimmer, and you feel the need to raise your voice even though it probably isn't necessary.  "Pet project, sir?"

He chuckles, shaking his shoulders, and you pull the trimmer back to avoid swerving your cut.  "Long story.  One for another day."  You sigh and return to your work, not at all liking the sound of that story but resolving that he tells things at his own pace.  You comb your fingers perhaps too tenderly through his hair in pushing it away from the trimmer.  "He seems to think of you as his new project, anyway, so I can't see him objecting to a bit of grown-up girl bonding time between us."

You snort with amusement, but you're aware of how hollow it sounds; the idea of anyone thinking you or Levi to be a personal project turns your stomach.

You don't really know Erwin, but your determination against disliking him is beginning to slide.

You shave the rest of Levi's hair in relative silence, tilting his head between your fingers into the necessary angles, and it turns out looking better than you'd thought, though you didn't get as close to his ears as you should have in fear of nicking him.  You're switching out the trimmer for the scissors to trim the longer portions of his undercut, a task with which you are blessedly familiar, but he gets up as you move, shedding the plastic cloak and watching the clippings rain to the floor.

"I'll take care of that," he assures you clearly through your mumblings, "you just get moving with the laundry.  I've got a turtle head poking out here."  His phrasing is odd enough that it takes you a moment to deduce what he means, and in that moment, he shoos you out of the washroom so he can "offer sacrificial token to the porcelain gods" in solitude.  You double back for the hamper with a shout before he kicks you out entirely.

You are simultaneously pleased and distressed to find that the squad in charge of laundry today is Major Hanji's.

No one asks you questions as to why you're washing your own clothing with laundry that clearly belongs to the captain, but you get several prolonged puzzled looks, particularly from Moblit, who glances between Hanji's feverish grin and your noncommittal expression with a frequency that makes you fear his neck might combust from the friction of twisting against his jacket collar.

As fully anticipated, the major can't stay away from you for long, and plops down beside you, wriggling closer on her knees until her hip bumps yours.  You recognize the futility in attempting to scoot away.

"So," she starts, and you head her off immediately.

"Not talking about it."

"Oh come _on_ ," she gripes, flinging a wet shirt onto her lap.  "I helped you out, didn't I?"

"Yes, and I appreciate it, but you also really upset him this morning and I don't think you've earned any further compensation for that."  You rinse his sixth pair of socks under the pump and marvel at the pile still remaining, only half depleted.  How many socks does he wear in a day?  "I showed you the note, and that's payment enough.  That was the deal."

She groans loudly in an uncanny impersonation of a trumpet, but leaves the subject alone.

You're nearly done washing your underwear, the last thing to go, and ready to start hanging everything when she attempts another tack.  "So did he tell you about his thug life?"

He's told you it existed, yes, and he elaborated on it enough that you know things you're fairly certain no one else does, since he had mused that people don't have remarkable powers of extrapolation when it comes to his past.  "Yep."

"He tell you he used to live in the underground city?"

He hadn't worded it like that, but he had said "living in the gutters," so you can safely assume that's what he meant.  "Yep."

"How he used to be one of the biggest and baddest heads of trafficking stolen goods?"

Now that, he had stated explicitly.  "Yep."  You think you're beginning to pick up on her approach, and you're not going to fall for it.  Does she take you for stupid?

"What did he say about his life down there?"

Not much, admittedly, but the knowledge that he'd had connections in the higher-ups and had presumably been able to pass among the royal family at some point must pale in comparison to the facts regarding his physical growth.  "Private things I'm not going to repeat."

"Really?"  Her hands are folded over the sopping wet cloak on her lap, her face brimming with excitement.  "Like what?"

Apparently she does take you for stupid.  "Like private things I'm not going to repeat."  You rise, taking the hamper of wet clothes with you, and start to pin them on the line.

"Did he tell you about the code of silence?"

You're not exactly comfortable shouting to her over your back, especially with her ignored squad around the both of you and exchanging increasingly confused glances.  "The what?"

"The _code_ , Eren, the code where if you talk about the inner circles or even mention that they exist you get—" You look back just in time to see her swipe a thumb over her throat and make a disgusting hacking noise.

The perturbed grimace you give her doesn't seem to have any effect, so you reach over to dump her dripping sweater vest on her head.  It makes her laugh, but it doesn't help her see your point, so you say, "If it really works like that, I don't think he could break it to tell me it exists, could he?"

Her face slumps along with her shoulders.  "Oh.  I suppose not."

"And by that token, how did you even hear about it?"

"From others," she hums, going back to her work of lathering someone's jeans.  "He's not the only one we've picked up from the underground city, you know.  It's actually a pretty common practice.  Kind of barbaric, honestly, but think about it — we only picked up twenty-one recruits yesterday."

You can't help the shocked expression your face falls into.  "We got that many?"

Her grin is somewhat alarming.  "Exactly.  Such a small number, and yet it seems large from the perspective of someone who knows how dangerous it is.  So the higher-ups tend to go on scouting missions, not outside the walls, but under the roads.  Picking up people who are clearly okay with living on the edge and giving them a second chance.  And a bunch of them are from crime rings and they know about the code, but they don't have any more information than 'it exists,' so it's not very helpful."

You're sure now that you've caught on properly.  "And you're trying to drag up as much information as you can, huh."

"Obviously!  Isn't it fascinating?"

She keeps jabbering about the potential implications for a society utterly dependent on its self-established monarchy, but her words don't sink in, because you've finally inferred what all this means in regards to the captain.

He called himself "Erwin's pet project," and now asserts that you've taken that role for yourself.  Going by his accounts, he was taken in because Erwin had a plan for his skills and attitude.  You know that Erwin brought you into the Corps not just for your skill and attitude, but as someone with unusual capacity to change the flow of the war.

Does that mean the same thing happened to Levi?

He's never mentioned an active desire to join the military, though…

You drop a clothes pin in your sudden shock, and as you bend to retrieve it, you allow your next thought to fully form:

If he held a high rank in this criminal ring as he says he did, he would not only know about the code of silence, but be privy to tons of information that would fall under the umbrella of things to be kept under wraps.  Someone in that position, who had been in it so long that his physical development had been affected by it, wouldn't have left such a hard-won title willingly to enlist in the Corps.

Was he forced in?

You finish the last of the hanging and leave, taking the empty hamper with you.

Levi isn't in his quarters when you return, the washroom door open and the floor swept with a candle lit over the commode — you silently thank him for that — so you replace the hamper in its corner and jog back downstairs, remembering as you go that your squad has lunch duty.

The clatter of cutlery emanating from the kitchen as you stride into the mess hall confirms it.

Levi isn't helping in the preparation, but rather, attending to the list of sandwich ingredients and reminding everyone of their duties.  His eyes meet yours as you enter, and you move directly to a wash station to clean up before handling food.  You hope you're not taking too long, but then again, preparing the food is a different matter than simply consuming it, and you justify the excess time with the understanding that he'll be happier this way than if you rushed through to help with cooking as quickly as possible.

A hand ghosts over the small of your back, and his voice floats over your shoulder.  "Have fun with Hanji?"

You snort.  "Yeah, tons.  I learned about the apparently rampant practice of recruiting from the, uh… capital?"  His hand stiffens on your back, and with a sinking stomach, you notice Gunther is giving you a strange look over his shoulder; you realize an addendum is necessary or someone's going to ask what that means and why Levi has gone so quiet, and you _know_ why, how stupid _are_ you to bring it up in the first place?  "Just seems like people in there really understand what we've got to lose since Maria's been breached."

His sharp inhalation relaxes his form, and he murmurs, "Yes.  They do."

Levi offers you a towel, and you let your hands linger over his as you take it, making him meet your gaze and trying to convey with your expression that you didn't spill anything yourself.  Strangely enough, though you could tell Hanji was trying to goad you into talking by promising more information in return, you'd managed to turn the tables and pull the same thing on her.  You think he understands, because he gives a barely perceptible nod and his face softens.  He directs you toward your spot in the sandwich assembly line he's constructed, and you take portions of cheese as Erd cuts them and lay them on the pieces of bread with cucumber slices that Auruo passes across him to you, finishing them with the final bread and laying them on a platter at the end of the counter.

You lose yourself in the tedium of work and follow suit with the rest of your squad when Levi deems the amount sufficient, washing up a final time and taking your own sandwiches into the mess hall.  Petra almost sits next to Levi, but the captain snatches the seat and holds it out for you instead.

You're not sure whether the expression that crosses her face is real or imagined.

The mess hall slowly fills, Hanji's squad trudging in last and all soaked from hair to toe for some reason, and you know the devious grin and nod she aims at you are definitely not imagined.

You ignore it just the same, refocusing your attention on your meal to realize Levi is wiping cucumber seeds onto the rim of your plate.  You retaliate by taking a swig of his tea.  The disgusted wince he makes when you put the cup soundly above his plate is worth the fear that he might not drink any more; even if he wastes it, you won't, and he'll just get himself more.  He does pick it up, though, and after steeling himself with a breath, takes a sip.

The knowledge that he's willing to share germs with you is thrilling in a way you can't explain, but it feels like running downhill.

You want to latch onto his arm and drag him to his quarters and ask him more about this potential trafficking thing, or read from his book and try to finish the tale you've zoned out on three times now, or just hold him and appreciate his company, anything, but as it is, you're only brave enough to wait for him to finish the cup before asking what your squad has planned for the rest of the day.

He gives you a smirk that makes you wish you hadn't asked, and though quiet, his voice is far too smug, capturing the attention of your entire squad.

"Combat training."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (yes that is petra's underwear and the fact that auruo knows about it means 100% what you think it means)


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last, we learn why this collection is called "Sentiment."
> 
> Additionally, I trust that by now, my adoration for Auruo Bossard should have made itself quite apparent. The man's entire life is endlessly snowballing anxiety and tragedy, and he responds to it with sass and laughter, and for that, he needs more love and cookies.

Somehow, you hadn't anticipated that by "combat training" he'd meant actual _combat_ training.

You're not sure he meant it that way either, because he starts your squad on maneuver gear and horseback training — you'd ridden through the fields and forest surrounding the castle, following his drop-of-a-hat instructions to practice evasive action or leap into the trees and leave your horses to the tow of your squad mates — but as you breach the end of the trees, you and Erd still traveling by your gear, Levi calls you all in for a break, and Auruo's snide reaction to your sweaty exhaustion sparks a reaction in the captain.

You've all removed your gear for a break, and you and Erd collect yourselves as Gunther starts to unload the basket of snacks and water.  Petra moves toward helping, but Auruo slides his gear off with a laugh.

"Look at this kid," he sneers.  "Barely been working two hours and he's sweating buckets.  Never gonna last in the field like that."

"That's why we're practicing," Petra reminds him with a stern expression, passing a canteen to the captain.

"Practicing?  At this rate we're gonna need a year before he can keep up with us!  You gonna hack it out there, Jäger, or you gonna need us to carry you in a baby back pack?"

You don't have a reply, mainly because your stomach is still unclenching from having used the maneuver gear for so long.  When it comes to such a rigorous task as 3D maneuvering, every second of body training counts, and the past couple weeks of resting in prison cells and captain's quarters have put you further out of shape than you'd thought.  You need to work out again, but you haven't seen any place around the castle to do so.  You wonder if Levi could point you in the right direction.

The captain doesn't seem to read your mind on this question, but he does lock his gaze upon you in an expression that, though subtle, you think shows a fair amount of concern.  "Care to defend yourself, Eren?"

You're not sure what that means, but if it's a test, you don't want to fail it.  "Sir?"

"Why did you rank fifth in class?"

You weren't aware he knew your class rank, and the momentary surprise stalls you.  After a second, you recognize that his tone is rhetorical, but before you can formulate a reaction, Auruo flaunts his ineptitude at reading between the lines.  "Yeah, anyway!  What exactly did a brat like you do to get a rank like that?"

Your eyes flick from him to the captain, who gives you a small encouraging nod, and you say, "Top marks in hand-to-hand."

He snorts with an obnoxious amount of accompanying spittle.  "Like that's gonna do you any good!  I'm totally certain there will come a time when we'll abandon our horses and gear and just waltz up and _punch_ a titan."  Well, if you do, at least you'll know how to waltz.  You exchange a glance with the captain and bite back a giggle.  "A damn lot of help it'll be, I can sure appreciate the value of that.  Why do they bother grading kids these days in their hand-to-hand performance?  Like why does it even count?"

"Because," Gunther supplies over the top of his sandwich, "in case you haven't noticed from our newest member, some titans _are_ humans."

Auruo is not phased by this information, demonstrating his carelessness with a laugh.  "Yeah, and if you try to kick 'em, they'll just turn into brick shithouses and eat you."

"What he means," Erd says as tosses a canteen and tupperware box in your direction, "is that regardless of their abilities, there are possibly humans who aren't on our side."

Auruo's expression conveys every bit of disdain you're sure he feels for that assertion.  "So we shoot them!"

The captain drains his canteen and moves on to the tea thermos he's strapped to his saddle.  "I'm inclined to think hand-to-hand training is quite valuable.  Even if you never end up needing it, it's impossible to predict whether you'll find yourself in a situation where ground combat is advantageous."

Petra's irritated expression shifts to something satisfied, and Auruo splutters.  "Well, I mean I guess if you're kidnapped and disarmed or something, but… I don't think it's something we should necessarily _bank_ on."

"What are we supposed to do, sit around and wait to never need it?  It's better to be prepared, don't you think?"

Auruo fishes for something that sounds accepting yet still self-assured, and amid his stammering, the captain winks at you.  "So then Jäger," Auruo drawls at last, sauntering around his horse's front and screwing the cap back on his canteen, "you gonna show us how great you think fist fighting is?  Gonna teach us a little lesson, Mr Top In Class?"

You hold a hand up in defense.  "I didn't say I was top in class.  My sister was.  I was just top in hand-to-hand.  Not counting her, even, she beat out everybody in everything.  Fucking ridiculous."

Petra raises an eyebrow at you.  "It's ridiculous that a girl can get top marks?"

"Huh?"  You have no idea what Mikasa's gender has to do with anything.  "No?  She's just beast, dude, it's crazy.  She's like not even human.  Even the D.I. was shocked that anyone could put forth that amount of skill."

Petra seems only marginally satisfied by that answer, but you're not sure what more she wants, so you ignore her reactions in favor of Auruo's taunting, strange though you know your choice is.  "Whatever, Jäger, you can't snuff it and you know it.  Valuable, my ass."

Levi is giving you a look you think might be support but you don't want to be too presumptuous, and he jerks his head toward the clear field beyond the horses.  "Go on."

You're still uncertain whether this is a test or if he's actually taking your side.  "Sir?"

"Show him what you've got."  He takes a large swig of tea, during which you debate for a final time how sincere he is.  "Shut him up.  I'm getting sick of his mouth."

You sigh heavily.  "If you say so, sir," you acquiesce, and you move toward open field, replacing your half-drained canteen and half-eaten sandwich in the basket as you pass.  Auruo leaps at the challenge, shoving his own sandwich at Erd and not hearing the man's warning that he cannot guarantee its safety, and he strides into the open with a remark you don't listen to.  You stop before the captain and slip your jacket off, holding it out to him.  "Do you…?"

"Not at all," he assures, a vein of amusement evident in his voice, and folds the jacket over a forearm.  "I appreciate you keeping it as sweat-free as you can."

"F'course."  You tug your shirt down and tuck it better in the back.  "If it starts to smell like balls you have my permission to throw it across the field."

He laughs, not the high rippling giggle that makes your chest ache but a soft wry laughter that lets you know just how seriously he's taking your offer, and waves you toward Auruo, already bouncing in place to warm up his reflexes.

He's taken note of your missing jacket, because he howls with mockery.  "Gotta take off your jacket to spar, huh?  Can't fight with a coat on?  Well, you'd better hope that if you get surprise jumped by anyone who tries to kidnap or kill you, they give you the grace of letting you stop first to disrobe!"  He cricks his neck and pops his knuckles, laughing all the while, and turns to Gunther to crow, "Kid can't fight with a jacket!"

"Actually," you murmur, stepping into position square across from him, "granted I have almost no memory of it, but I'm inclined to think I fight best completely naked.  And fifteen meters tall."

You weren't aware of the others muttering amongst themselves, but the moment the words leave your mouth, you're cognizant of the sudden hush that falls among your squad.  Even the horses seem to have gone still.  Petra, having moved to take the captain's empty canteen and offer him half of her sandwich, freezes and gives you wide eyes.

You're not sure what the big deal is.

Levi smirks.  "This just got interesting."

"I'm not gonna shift," you stammer, but you're not certain whether that's what they're worried about, because the tension doesn't drop.  Sucking in a deep breath, you tune out their reactions and focus solely on Auruo, who is doubtlessly going to wreck your shit if you don't pay attention.  A moment of panic flits through you wherein you fear the impact of fists or boots on your face ever again, but it's drowned out as he draws his fists up, and you try to calm yourself by picturing a tranquilizingly familiar scene.  Auruo's hair, and the shape of his face, call up an image in your mind of Jean goading you in the mess hall at training, and with that simple parallel, you erase the field and trees from your sight, wiping it clean in an instant and replacing it with a visual of a torch-lit cabin and wooden benches.

Your posture relaxes, shoulders falling forward, chin tucking down, and your tightly curled fists loosen as your weight shifts to the balls of your feet, your body ready to spring into action at the slightest movement from him.

Levi's voice floats into your senses — "this just got _very_ interesting" — but you don't think about the meaning of those words because you're in a place that's not wholly here and now.  Jean— no, Auruo's face pinches into a sneer, and as he begins to advance on you, the captain claims, "I get the winner."

Auruo falters, and you hear him say "Really?", hear Levi respond with "somehow I don't think it's going to be who you think it is," but you don't register these things, because your body is already in motion, taking advantage of his hesitation.  You've planted your head next to his waist and wound arms around him, and before he can react with more than a shout of surprise, you've tossed him over your shoulder.

The grass looks soft, but his back hits the ground with a solid thud, his lungs forced empty.

It takes the squad a moment to respond to this, a moment in which Auruo gasps for breath, but when they do, it's nearly all at once.  Gunther shouts something to question the necessity of such a rough start, Erd simply says "wow," and Petra cries "That's enough!"

Levi cuts them all short with a dry chuckle.  "It's enough when he says it's enough."

Auruo wheezes, "I'm fine!", but you look to the captain.

Sure enough, his gaze is fixed upon you, his countenance pleased.  "I wasn't talking about you, Auruo."

The man attempts to scramble around and stand up, and you know that if you were in an actual hostile situation, you would punt him in the jaw and run, but you're not, and you shouldn't do that to him.  He reaches for your ankles and you hop back, giving him room to right himself and regain his bearings.  He doesn't take that chance, though, swinging at you as soon as he's on his feet, and you use his momentum against him, throwing his arm past you and sweep-kicking his ankles.  He falls on his front this time, his teeth clacking audibly as his jaw impacts the ground.

You wonder if he bit through his tongue again.

As he scrabbles to his feet once more, there's a thin trail of blood leaking from between his lips, and you suppose he must have.

Your stomach drops.  You weren't supposed to actually hurt him.

He looks enraged, pissed enough to stop pulling punches, and you realize you never should have accepted his challenge because you can't back down without winning and you won't be able to defeat him without injuring his pride, so you're both forced to escalate until one of you gets seriously injured.  Having recognized the situation as it is, it's now your responsibility to put a stop to it, because the fury in Auruo's eyes does not indicate a man willing to compromise.

Erd chuckles through the rest of Auruo's sandwich, "You don't waste time, do you kid?", but you don't stop to formulate a response; you're not sure how far the captain wants you go before calling it too far, but you've been training for killing or incapacitating your opponent as fast as possible, and even though you have to end this right now, you don't think Auruo would appreciate you attempting to sever his head from his shoulders.

You settle for the next best thing.

You move to palm heel strike him in the face, but as expected, he blocks, and you enable the motions of his arms, throwing his torso off balance and pushing him to the proper distance for you to execute a reverse roundhouse kick that connects with his jaw and knocks him down so hard his skull bounces off the earth.

It's the third time he's hit the ground in less than a minute, but this time doesn't find him trying to hop to his feet right away; a low moan gurgles out of him, and he tries to prop himself up on his palms, but his elbows won't hold him.  You remember the crack of a heel on your cheek with such vividness you shudder, and you stare at the offending sole of your own boot, wondering with a churning guilt whether you've gone too far.  Unlike you, he won't heal instantly.

Your voice doesn't feel like your own.  "That's enough."

As if released from a cage, Petra flies to his side and cajoles him onto his back with gentle touches and soothing murmurs, shooting a dangerous look toward you as she nurses him to fully coherent consciousness.

You feel like you've been punched in the gut.

The captain's hand is on your shoulder, and you flinch with instinctive surprise, but you move with his touch, letting him draw you back from Auruo and rub the tension out of your shoulder blade.

Petra convinces him to sit, and though he seems a bit wobbly, he manages to sling an arm around her and stand.  He gives you a pout that is downright petulant, but Levi's grip on your shoulder keeps you from getting too upset with yourself.  You're not sure what less you could've done and still won without getting annoyed.

You look to relieve his hands of your jacket, but you find his forearm empty, and what's more, his own jacket is missing.  Your eyes slide up to his face and notice the cravat is gone from his throat.  You're about to turn and ask, but his hand on your back bars you from moving and he silences you with a quiet smile.  "Where do you think you're going?"  You don't like his tone, the silkiness sticking in your ears like the web of a spider, and a thread of unease catches in your chest.  "I believe I called a match with the winner."

You vaguely recall hearing him say something to that effect, but the captain is in a completely different league with physical combat and everyone and their grandmother can sense it, so you didn't think he'd been sincere with that comment, especially not if it had meant facing off with you.  The idea seems hilarious enough that you're sure at first that he's joking.  His expression says otherwise, though, and you've become too familiar with the subtle changes in the lighting of his eyes to mistake his expressions.

A rock drops in your gut, and you think you might regurgitate your half-eaten sandwich.

He's really going to fight you.

Your breath rushes out in a humorless chuckle that presses the ball of nausea further up your throat.  You twist away from his hand, noticing as you move that a nervous Gunther has two jackets piled in his arms, and you backpedal from the captain as he watches you with interest.

The situation has taken a sudden turn for the cold and harsh, and grasping at straws, you're compelled by the desperation to assure that he's just playing with you, though you know deep down that he's not.  "You're not serious?"

"Why not?"  He unbuttons his cuffs and starts to roll up his sleeves one at a time.  "Didn't we agree fist fighting is a valuable skill to be kept sharpened?"

"Well… yeah, but—"

"Don't you want to practice?"

Of course you do, you'd just been puzzling over how best to get in some physical training, but— "Not on you!"

"Why not on me?"

He's advancing on you now, slowly, his sleeves rolled past his elbows, and you feel a knot of panic starting to tighten.  Much as people say you tend to overestimate yourself, your self-assessments are always right, and that means you have a firm grasp on your limitations.  As such, you're keenly aware that even in a practice match, fighting him is beyond the realm of your capabilities.  This is Levi you're looking at — your hero, your mentor, the love of your short life.  He taught you to dance last night and let you give him a hickey, hidden now beneath his shoulder padding, and this morning you woke up naked beside him and he washed your hair and you're _pretty damn sure_ he wants to kiss you, though probably not as badly as you want to kiss him, and you can't fight him.  You know you can't.  You're sorely tempted to turn and bolt into the trees, but your maneuver gear lies forgotten beside your horse.  "Captain, I don't— I can't—"

"Oh," he purrs, cracking his knuckles.  "I see.  You like me."

His unexpected and blunt accusation rings fuzzy in your ears, and you feel your face go hot and tingly.  "Wh… I don't… I mean, I do like Auruo—"

"No," he says, his voice as muted as his bootsteps in the grass, "you don't.  You respect him.  You _like_ me.  There's a disparity here, and you know it."  Your eyes shoot to Petra, begging her to sort this out for you because she's usually so prompt about trying to appease Levi, but she's got Auruo on the ground again and is coaxing water into his mouth, tossing the occasional glare at you as if you're the devil himself.  So much for trusting each other; you'd known it was a pointless idea in the first place.  "Eren, I'm going to tell you something you're not going to want to hear, and I'm going to make it very plain, just for you."

He already has, because he's said he's going to fight you.  You push your sleeves up, trying to tell him with your eyes that you _can't fucking do this_ , but you can already tell he's not having it.

"Now that your identity and your abilities have been made public, the enemies of mankind are going to do everything they can to root you out and kill you.  They're going to target people close to you who value their own skins more than yours, and turn them against you.  Every single person to join our ranks yesterday is a potential mole.  Do you understand what I'm saying?"

You think so, but the idea of any of your friends turning against you is preposterous.

"The chances of you being forced to fight and subdue someone you care about are astronomically high."

You try to imagine Marco squaring off against you with intent to kill, but you can't erase the loyal smile that bunches his freckled cheeks.  You try to picture Sasha aiming an arrow between your eyes, but the bow turns into a buttered roll and her traitorous countenance turns to one of fear for being caught stealing food.  You try to picture Connie facing you with an expression of resolute murderous design.  Or Annie.  Or Armin.

Or Mikasa.

They couldn't, none of them would, but they're equally as dear to you as Levi is, and his left shoulder turns to face you, his fists rising, his weight shifting to his right foot, planted at a steady distance.  You've seen your friends take this position across from you before, but that was with the understanding that you're just killing time, or you're trying to learn something from them; this time, Levi's face is cold and impassive as stone, and he means to show you that you can't take any of this lightly anymore.

He's succeeding.

"Captain, I really don't wan—"

"It doesn't matter whether you like me or not," he says flatly.  "It doesn't matter whether we're just teammates or the best of friends.  You have to learn to turn to someone you love and cut the ties of affection the moment they start working against you.  We're in a fucking war, Eren, and there's no place for sentiment here.  You'd do best to learn that quickly."

His words slice through you like one of his blades.

Is he telling you to give up on him?

You can't do that, you absolutely can't do that, not a snowball's chance in summer could you turn away from him now that you've come so far and gotten so close.  You hold your hands up to stop him, make him explain, screw the audience, but his face has faded into the same paper blankness he'd had during the tribunal and he's closing the gap between you with a fist.

You dodge straight into his swinging knee.  It hits your ribs with such force that your feet are lifted from the ground, and something in your side cracks with a jolt of suffocating pain.  It's suddenly hard to breathe, and you taste blood.  Levi's face remains as expressionless as a cat eyeing its prey, the same eyes that drew you in for a kiss twice this morning as empty as if they've been carved from slate.

You can't believe this is happening.

With that thought, something changes.

A breaker in your mind flips.  If this is so surreal you can't believe it, what's to stop you from processing it or reacting to it in an equally unrealistic fashion?

You could never beat Levi in real combat, and you both know it, but if this isn't real, you could do it.

You're sure you can, in fact.  It's only a matter of how.

A discordant sense of calm washes through you, and the tightly wound wires of tension throughout you relax.  You're not afraid to fight him anymore.

His fists and shins fly at you, and you dodge them, ducking and skipping out of his range.  He rushes you, and you push him past.  He spins to face you, and his emotions are starting to reemerge as the faintest edge of anger.  He's commanding you to fight him properly, give him the honor of a real attempt, and all you're doing is evading.

But you're not evading.  You're studying.

His reputation is an understatement if anything, your heart knocking on your chest with every leap you take away from him, and in close quarters without room to dodge freely, you would probably be dead if you had to defend yourself alone.  He moves far too quickly for you to retreat and with too much brute force for you to attempt to block his strikes outright, your forearms stinging in places where he's grazed you with too near misses.  But if you can find the pattern to his movements, you can find an opening, and you're sure that once you find it, just like the Armored Titan and Wall Maria, you can render his entire seemingly infallible form useless with a single well-placed blow.

You land an experimental elbow to his side that does absolutely nothing against his flexed obliques, and he rewards you with a return elbow to your temple that makes the sky spin into the trees.

You dart out of range before he can land another, and you utilize what you know.

Levi is a person whose self-control has a stable upward curve and a steep drop; he maintains composure and becomes steadily more calculative and manipulative as the tension mounts, but when it hits an apex, he snaps, and he hits rock bottom exploding in a fireball of roaring and throwing boots across the room and punching desks.  When he goes berserk, he gets sloppy.  Getting him to that point is incredibly difficult due to his extraordinary self-possession, but it can be done, you've seen it, and from what you know, he has yet to resolve the issue that pushed him to the brink the other night.  Get him to that point, and though he's infinitely more dangerous, if you can land your strike before he lands his, he's also infinitely easier to take down.

You keep ducking, keep dodging, keep falling back, and he keeps getting angrier.

Without hitting that tipping point, though, he's impossible.  You know the structure of his body from familiarity, and he's so thickly padded that blows to his torso or legs would be near ineffective.  The only weak points that remain are his head — which you would have to take out with a kick as you did with Auruo, and such a move is so easily dodged or turned against you that it requires catching your opponent off-guard, and you know that even in his berserk state Levi wouldn't fall susceptible to that kind of attack — and his gut.

Your own twists with the idea of hurting his stomach, knowing how much damage he's already compounded, but then you remember that this isn't real and that's not Levi.

Your tactic is decided, then.

You never get a chance to use it, though, because of all the things you've taken into account, the one thing you haven't is that his endurance far and away surpasses yours.

You don't have the stamina to keep dodging until he hits his apex.

He catches you with an arm outstretched before you can summon the energy to dodge, and he grips your forearm, the tightening of his fingers on your skin feeling like you've been grabbed by a live wire.  His grip becomes his anchor, and his boots are off the ground, his body twisting over yours, knees locking around your throat, and suddenly you don't know where his body stops and yours begins and everything's twisting and crumpling and you fall under him with a hard thud before you can process what the hell just happened.

He's sitting on the back of your neck, calves trapped under your chest, pinning you face down.  Sweet-smelling grass tickles the inside of your nose.

You think he just lifted himself off the ground by the sheer force of his anger and scissor kicked you in the neck.

The idea is so absurd you start laughing.

You don't know why you're laughing, and that makes you laugh harder.

He extricates himself from your prone form, and he plops down in front of you with legs folded into a lotus.  "Is this funny to you?"

"It's hilarious," you splutter through giggles, and you roll onto your back, pressing at your ribs where his knee hit you, assessing the damage as you laugh.  You're surprised at how relatively little things hurt, as your brand-new forearm bruises are already fading to brown, but you suppose your healing abilities are working for once.  Levi plucks a handful of drying grass and sprinkles the blades over your laughing face, and you spit out the few that land in your mouth.  You grope behind you for him and find his knees, trying to pick out tickle spots behind them, and he lightly kicks a toe against your head.

"Nerd."

"You're one to talk," you tease, reaching for his waist, but he's out of range.  "What the actual hell was _that_ , how strong even _are_ your abs?  You're like a fucking spider."

"Strangely enough, I've thought of myself that way but never been called that by anyone else," he says, scooting close enough to play with your hair, and your searching fingers grab the abdominal straps of his harness at last.  "Stop reading my mind, Eren, you're freaking me out."

"Hey," Gunther calls from the sidelines, "are you guys gonna get your coats back or are we having a tea party now?"

You remember that this situation was supposed to be serious, and you've only forgotten because you switched off your ability to feel it.  You grab at his waist and try to hug his lap under your head, but he tells you to get up and brush the dirt off your ass.

You do, and you get your gear back on and saddle up with the rest of them, even though Auruo's a bit shaky about it, and you avoid Petra's loud glaring at you, leading your horse next to the captain's as the formation is rearranged.  You're not sure if he succeeded in impressing upon you the gravity of your probable future fighting someone else you care about — you're pretty sure all he's managed to do is draw you in even closer — but you do know now, at least, that you're capable of doing it without coming out completely scarred.

Maybe it's still the aftereffects of your discordant calm, but right now, you aren't afraid of scaring him off with conversation.

"So," you start, "I was hoping to talk to you a little more about the, um… recruitment from the capital thing?  Later, I mean.  Bit busy right now, obviously."

He meets your gaze with an expression that is part puzzled, part impressed, and he murmurs, "Sure."  Then the glint in his eyes turns mischievous, and he adds, "If you can catch me," and he spurs his horse to a gallop.

After an instant of baffled shouts, the rest of your squad follows his lead, and though you can't help but smile, you take off after them with a mutter of "God dammit."


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the actual canon plot rudely t-bones the romantic subplot because, oh right, the 104th are people who exist.

You don't catch him, but only because he's a dirty rotten cheater and he's phenomenal at stopping on a wire and pulling hairpin turns in an instant.  You're sure he keeps his horse together with superglue.

Only after you've stabled your horses and cleaned them does Levi inform you that it's your squad's duty to muck the stalls.  You make a face at him that demonstrates exactly how you feel about such a job, and he kicks you in the ankle as he strolls past.

You peek around the dividing wall into Auruo's stable.

He doesn't notice you right away, his back turned to you as he shovels, but when he does, he nearly jumps clean out of his skin.  "FUCK, Jäger!"

"You feeling okay?"

"Not any-fucking-more!  Shit—" He clutches his chest and leans against his horse, collecting his wits.  It would be funny if you weren't so concerned for his health.  His voice is ragged with fading anxiety.  "What do you want?"

You hide a bit further behind the wall, poking out just enough that he can see your eyes.  "To make sure you're not hurt."

He lets his tension go with a sigh and turns back to his work.  "Gonna have a glorious bruise, thanks, but I'm fine."  You watch him work for another moment, and he doesn't seem nearly as shaky as he'd been when you'd started back.  "You pack a hell of a wallop, kid."

You're tempted to chuckle, but it comes out too airy and anxious.  "I've been told I'm bad at holding back."

"Yeah, no fuckin' kidding."

Petra's voice cuts in from the next stall over, "You might have a concussion.  You should rest."

"When I'm done," he gripes, twisting to deposit his shovelful into the wheelbarrow.  You suppose you should go back to your own work, having been put behind by watching, but you can't help but worry that the damage is worse than it seems.  You've heard of people snapping others' necks with that kick; you really should have been far more careful, and you feel like delivering a similar kick to yourself for your recklessness.

You've each finished your own stalls and moved on to the occupied ones, turning the horses out as you go, and you're finishing the last one when Gunther's disembodied voice drifts in.

"Hey guys, when you're done, come look at this."

You dump your last shovelful in the wheelbarrow and trot toward the origin of his voice, finding him just outside in the pasture, Erd and Petra already by his side.  Behind you, Auruo takes the last load of the wheelbarrow to empty as you join with the others.

Gunther has a large sheet of paper on the ground, and you recognize the vague pattern of a scouting formation from the lecture you'd struggled through on the first day.

"Is that the final draft, then?" you ask as you kneel beside him.

"Yep," he affirms as Auruo moves up behind you, but with Petra peering over your shoulder, and Erd to your left, there isn't much room to look past you, so he tends to one of the nearby horses instead, feeding it something from his pocket.  "The spec ops squad is here — line five, center, on standby."

He indicates the position with his finger as if you couldn't count, and your instinct is to say _I'm illiterate not numerically challenged_ but you don't, because nobody else knows that, and you try to flatten the hackles that have risen.  "That's… pretty far in the back, isn't it?"

"Well, this is the safest spot in the entire formation," he points out, and Petra rights herself, popping her back audibly.  "We'll get more special treatment than even the supply carts.  Plus, our expedition this time is pretty short.  It's just a trial for the real deal that we'll embark on later.  Our goal this time is nothing more than get out, turn around, come back alive."

It seems simple enough, but flashes of blurry half-formed memories bubble to your mind, faces of soldiers you didn't know and never will shouting orders in Trost to defend your titan hide at all costs.  You have no idea how many of _them_ made it back alive at your expense.

You stare down at your hand.

"Gunther? I, um… I wasn't told yet what exactly I'm supposed to do with my, uh… power."  He gives you a calculative look that you don't understand, not being nearly as familiar with his expressions as you are with Levi's.  "Is anyone _going_ to tell me?  Is it really okay for me to just let everything proceed without knowing the plan, or am I supposed to act on my own?"

Gunther's eyes turn down toward the formation schematic, his brows pinched together in heavy concentration.  He gnaws his upper lip for a moment.  "Eren… did you understand the question Commander Smith asked you the other day?"

You have no idea what he's talking about for a second before you remember the slain titans and the commander's hands warm on your cloak, his voice deep and buzzing uncomfortably close to your ear.  _Who do you think the real enemy is here?_   "No," you admit.  You think perhaps it had something to do with Erd and Gunther's point just before your brawls a few minutes ago, that there are humans working against humanity, but considering the test titans were slain by humans with maneuver gear, you'd taken that to be a given, and you don't understand what deeper information Erwin is looking for.  You're about to ask why Gunther is inquiring such a thing, but he's a lot more expressive than Levi and you acclimate to his faces quickly, and his disappointment leads you to believe he asked you because he doesn't know either and hoped you'd have a keener insight.  You glance around at your fellow squad mades.  "Any of you guys know what he was talking about?"

The "nope" from Erd, "no" from Petra, and "don't look at me" from Auruo all come at the same time.  Gunther seems to have some cogs turning in his head, a wrinkle of concentration forming between his brows.

"I'm starting to suspect that we actually have an ulterior objective to simply going out and coming back alive," he murmurs, "but…"  Rising to his feet, he takes the schematic with him and rolls it up into a tube.  "If so, Commander Smith concluded there's no reason for us to know.  So we pretend we don't.  We still have one objective.  Go out, and come back."  His gaze fixes upon you in particular.  "Trust your superiors.  Whether or not you're supposed to act isn't a choice for you to make.  You'll be told what to do.  Have faith that the timing is intentional, and the brass knows what they're doing."

You don't like it.  There's little more you hate than being kept in the dark, especially knowingly, and the anxiety of having no clue what to expect or what you should do is like a nail in your heel, painfully debilitating and impossible to ignore.

If it were up to you, you'd find a way to get the answers you need.

But it's not up to you.

Erwin has kept you in the dark before, regarding the nature of your tribunal and the way you were supposed to behave, and it turned out that your candid ignorance was exactly what they needed from you.  The commander seems to be a man of routine, judging by the state of affairs here at headquarters, and you wouldn't at all be surprised to find he's playing the cards especially close to the chest with you on purpose this time as well.

Except this time, you're aware that you have the choice to act, because you did last time, and it was just what he wanted.  Are you supposed to act this time?  Or are you supposed to sit by until told otherwise?

You wish someone would just give you a straight answer.

You meet Gunther's gaze with a reluctant nod.  "Yes, sir."

"Well then," he says, slapping the rolled-up schematic against his palm, "that's it for today.  Let's head back."  He leads the way toward the pasture gate, and you wonder why he's suddenly in charge and where Levi disappeared to.  Why is it that everyone around here seems to inherently know and be able to follow some sort of systematic code to which you're apparently blind?

Gunther talks about trusting your superiors, but the suspicious gleam in everyone's eye invalidates his claims.  Petra's venomous glare during your break had been no better, her refusal to come to your aid and stop Levi from attacking you, and you don't believe for a second anymore that anyone in the Corps will trust you with absolute abandon.

Well… maybe, save for one.  But he vanished after kicking your ass without a word toward you of a plan, and he never seems to be willing to clue you in on what's going on, either.  He'd agreed to fill you in on the things you'd missed during the lecture, but all he's done so far is read fairy tales with you.  As much as you've treasured the time, you're beginning to wonder why everyone around you seems so bent on keeping you as far out of the loop as possible.

As you pass by the barn again, it occurs to you that there are far more stalls in use now than there were just after lunch.  Some of the horses aren't familiar to you.  As this dawns on you, the muffled sounds of footsteps from the other side the barn begin to float across.

You can tell from the volume of footsteps that the group is too large to be any one squad already at headquarters, and you're not sure who it could be or what they would be up to, until you remember the events of yesterday that didn't involve incompetently tiptoeing around Levi.

Erd and Gunther's question as you'd been heading out returns to mind — _among your fellow graduates, is there anyone who wants to join us?_ — and you recall Hanji's slip that there had been twenty-one of them.

The distrust settling within you would like to remind you of Levi's point that every single one of them is a potential traitor, but you can't factor that in on top of what you're already feeling at the knowledge that twenty-one of your friends and trainees are here, right now, within hailing distance.

Looking toward the sound, you catch the group moving past the barn — all of them cloaked in green with the Survey Corps insignia pressed onto the back — the group ending with two people walking abreast, a blond boy half a head shorter than a black-haired figure with a scarf.

Your chest tightens painfully.

The rest of your squad has pulled too far ahead for hailing them to be logical, so you call to Auruo, only a step ahead of you.  "Can I go see my friends?"

"Huh?"  He glances toward you, then in the direction you're looking, before rolling his eyes and continuing toward the castle.  "Yeah whatever, get outta here."

You take off without waiting for further approval.

The rest of the heads don't matter yet, only the two closest to you, and you give a shout for their attention that makes Armin whip around as if lassoed and causes Mikasa, unflappable Mikasa, to flinch.

You catch up before she can turn around too.

Armin calls your name as you come to a stop in front of them, and Mikasa seems one hard thought away from throwing herself on you.  Instead, she seizes your fingers too hard for comfort in her trembling hands.  "Are you okay?" she demands.  You'd forgotten the softness of her voice, the way it touches something unreachable in your chest whether it's turning toward the dangerous or the emotional, and God how you've missed her, you've _ached_ for her and Armin both, and hadn't realized just how far you'd put the ache aside to deal with your mounting avalanche of issues one at a time.

There's a deep laceration on her cheek, mostly healed but still fresh.  With a sinking feeling, you wonder how it got there, and you think you should already know.

"I'm fine," you assure her, and you meet Armin's sparkling blue eyes with a smile.

"Are you sure?" she presses.  "Have they done anything terrible to you?  Full body cavity searches?  Psychological torture?"  Her voice is edging on frantic, her grip flying to your elbows instead of your hands and still uncomfortably tight.  You can't blame her for her behavior or her line of questioning; it's been weeks since last she saw you, and the last thing she saw was your teeth getting kicked out of your mouth.

"No," you insist, not sure whether to be amused by her panic or feel guilty about it.  "I'm fine, they're taking good care of me.  Don't worry."

You hope to allay her fears, but her expression of worry shifts abruptly into a quiet, dark rage.  "That fucking midget was acting so cocky at the hearing," she growls, drawing Armin's concerned gaze.  "He took it way too far, and one of these days, I'm going to make him pay for it."

For a moment, you have no idea what she's talking about, but only a moment, because Armin's stare is flicking back and forth between you as if waiting to see which volcano erupts first, and the suspicion that you should be angered by her words prompts your realization as to who she's talking about.

And here, just yesterday, you'd been wondering how to integrate your life with them and your life with him, hoping you could tell them about him and see it all seamed together peacefully.

You feel as though she's punched a hand through your chest and pulled your heart out, dizzy and short of breath and sick.

"You… aren't talking about Levi, are you…?"

She starts to recognize the look on your face, starts to say something more, but she's cut short by another familiar voice calling your name.  You allow yourself to be relieved at being distracted, but the relief only spans for that instant, and in its wake, you feel reprehensible for having allowed it in the first place.

Connie is the one hailing you, Sasha tripping one step behind him as he approaches with a waving hand.  Your heart sinks at them alone, but drops clean out of you to see Christa hustling to catch up, Ymir tagging along with a sigh, and just past her, Reiner swaggering with a confident smirk, and a noticeably pale Bertholdt at his side looking like he'd rather dissolve on the spot.  There's already a light sheen beneath his fringe.

Looking past the smiles and greetings as they gather around you, there's at least a trace of fear in the eyes of all of them, and in some, more than just a trace.  You wonder how many regret their decision.

You regret it for all of them.  You want to grab them by the hoods and march them all the way back to Trost and make them change their stupid minds, erase all the salutes and oaths from the record of time.

"Guys…?"  Your voice is hollow and tremulous, and you can't quite form coherent sentences in your thoughts.  "You're all… you've joined up too?"

"Why else would we be here?" Connie teases, clapping you on the shoulder.

 _Because you are eighth in class and should be in the MP,_ you respond, but only in your head, because you can't make words come out.  You should never have expected anything else from Mikasa and Armin; they'd never be able to keep themselves from your side for any longer than necessary.  But all the rest of them, save Ymir, have no reason to have not chosen the police force, and even she should've gone with the Garrison.  You wrack your brain and can't fathom a single reason why any of them would have stuck with the choices they'd professed toward you on the wall.

Even Reiner and Bertholdt.

They hadn't even been there at the breach, they'd been stationed at a different guard point, and they'd never once vocalized any inkling of desire to change their minds.

Reiner looks tired, though he's hiding it well.  Bertholdt just looks nauseated.

"So…"  You can't stand to meet Christa's eager smile as you address them, and direct your words toward Connie instead.  "So does that mean only Annie, Marco and Jean went into the MP?"  You're aware that your grief at seeing them here is disproportionate, since you do firmly believe there's no way to completely escape the titans, but you're thankful _someone_ had the presence of mind to keep away from deliberate, voluntary combat.  The entire rest of your class must have gone Garrison.

The faces in front of you aren't smiling anymore.  For a moment, you're afraid they've read your mind and they've realized you didn't want them here, but a voice behind you states flatly, "Marco is dead."

You understand the words, but your mind knocks them aside because you know that voice, and you have no earthly idea what in the world it's doing in this place.

You whirl to face him, unable to believe it until you see it, the spill of his name from your mouth tasting like blood from a wound, his presence here the final nail in the coffin of hoping that anyone would have chosen the road less deadly, because if Jean is here, Marco has to be here too, and then you're certain Annie wouldn't have left herself behind alone, and that's the end of it.  For Jean to be here, for him to have turned the others around and led them here, the reality of mankind's obligation to defend itself must have sunken in a lot harder than you'd thought.

You can't comprehend it, though.  "What… what are you doing here?"

He doesn't answer you, his sharp equine features as blank with contempt as ever, and at last, the words you've pushed aside float back to you and latch on, their meaning taking root.

For a moment, they don't make sense.

Well, they do, in a purely semantic sense, but you can't reconcile the meaning with something realistic and possible.

You saw him at the induction ceremony, didn't you?  You thought you did… it was someone his height with his hair, at least… and you've been imagining his reactions to things you've learned and projecting him in relation to you in the future… hell, just a few minutes ago you'd tried to imagine him turning against you and couldn't picture him as anything other than the sweet, smiling boy you know.

Even now, you try to picture a world without him, and it doesn't work.

You try to picture Jean without him, and you can't see him as anything but half of their duo.

But your eyes flick past him into the group beyond, scanning desperately for his profile, and he's not here.

"Did you just… did I hear what… okay wait, what?"  The words are simple, easy to process, but you can't take the idea of them and put it into a context that seems at all viable.  He's making it up, he has to be, there's no way that he of all people could've—

"Did you just say Marco's…?"  His name on your tongue doesn't feel right, and the idea of him and the idea of death do not intermingle, like two pieces of a puzzle that simply won't fit together no matter which way you turn them.  "No.  No, he's…"

It's a joke, a practical joke at your expense for being gone so long and scaring the shit out of all of them, it has to be.  It's not a very fucking funny one, and you want to get angry, but the faces around you aren't false, Jean's especially — he could never fake such a thing any more than you could fake it about Armin — and at last, you connect the sentiment of their collective expression with the reason behind it.  The trust forged over years of shared hardship holds true; they're not lying to you.

"He's… dead?"  The words having left your mouth, it makes even less sense, and you refuse to accept it, though a quiet dread in your gut begins to form.  You appeal to the boy in front of you, Marco's best friend and the closest person to him, the only one you trust to assess the situation accurately.  "Jean, pl… please, tell me I've misheard you…"

For such a passionate person, his voice is shockingly even and devoid of emotion.  "Seems not everyone can be a big deal.  No one knows how it happened or when.  His gear was missing, even.  Never had a chance in the fuckin' world without it.  And no one knows why."  No.  No, this isn't happening.  Your gaze is falling down his form to land on his feet, and you can't stop it any more than you can stop the truth you don't want to hear from pouring out of him.  "He died in a place where no one saw and no one knew.  I only found what was left of him two days into cleanup."

Your head feels far too light, and you think the colors of the twilight are sliding too far into the ground for someone who intends to stay upright and conscious.  Vaguely, some disconnected portion of your mind that has severed itself from this jarring information wonders if Levi's elbow hit you a little too hard.

Jean is either oblivious to your suffering or apathetic to it, because he leans into your face, his own teetering on the edge of rage.  "I hear you tried to kill Mikasa as a titan."  He may as well have thrust a knee into your gut, because you'd completely forgotten about that accusation in the courtroom and you feel like throwing up.  "What the hell's up with that, huh?"

You have no idea, because you don't remember, and the first and last time you heard about it was during the tribunal and you've put everything from that day out of your mind, washed aside in the tides of alternately attempting to woo your commanding officer and hide from him in embarrassment.  Right now, all you want is for him to turn back up and punch you in the face, because you are a fucking idiot and your priorities are every single kind of backwards.

People are _dying._   One of your best friends is dead, you tried to kill another yourself, and you already have lost count of the lives sacrificed for your sake.  And your highest concern is whether or not a man you've barely known a week wants to kiss you.

A tremor sets in under your skin, and tears well hot under your eyelids.

"No," Mikasa says, her voice gentle and consoling, but the tone doesn't reach her eyes.  "Eren was only trying to hit a fly."

The excuse is as flimsy as she knows it to be, and Jean silences her so harshly it stuns you.  His boots crunch on the walk as he abandons your airspace to invade hers, tapping his cheekbone as he moves.  "That cut on your face is pretty deep, huh?  Just where did you get that, exactly?"  Her hand snaps up to cover it on reflex, but you've already noticed it, and it makes your own cheeks burn hot with recognition.  The undeniable evidence of your attack on her, combined with Jean's behavior, start to bring you out of your stupor.  He never treats her like this, not because he's scared of her like you're sure most of the others are, but because he cares about her and respects her.  For him to antagonize her like that drives home the gravity of the situation.  People are dying for you.  And you don't have time to mope about it.

"Looks like I did try to hurt her."

He rounds on you again.  "Looks like?" he repeats, his voice lilting sharp.  "Sounds like you don't actually remember for yourself."  You can't meet his gaze anymore, can't meet Mikasa's piteous stare either, but you nod, and he says, "So in other words, you didn't even know you had this titan power until Trost, and you have no idea how it works or how to keep it under control.  Is that right?"

Your regret and mourning fade into quiet resignation.  "Yeah.  Sounds right."

He glares at you for a moment, his face darkened in anger, but by the time he looks away, his expression has turned as resigned as yours.  "So," he says, addressing the mutual friends around the two of you, "you heard him.  That's what we're dealing with.  That's what's supposed to save humanity here, a farm brat who can't control an inner beast he didn't even know he had.  And that's what we'll die for, like Marco, while Eren won't even know we're dead."

It's not your fault you didn't know about Marco, but… you can't deny it is at least partially your fault that he's dead in the first place if his death occurred trying to stave off titans while you sealed the breach.  And no matter how he died or why, the fact that the tactic of humanity has shifted to revolve around your totally unstable abilities does in part mean that every death from this point out is because of what you did.  You changed the tides of this war, you shifted the balance and twisted everything to rest upon yourself, and anything that goes wrong as a result is a direct consequence of that.

You should've just stayed fucking eaten.

Mikasa doesn't seem to agree.  "Jean, what do you hope to accomplish by humiliating him like this?"

"Look," he says, his quiet voice at odds with the bite of his words, "not everyone here would be happy to skip out into the jaws of death for Eren fucking Jäger and get not so much as recognition in return for it, like you would."  A reassuring hand rests on your arm from behind, and you're pretty sure it's Armin, but you don't look away from Jean long enough to check.  "Both Eren and this group as a whole need to understand what it is we'll be dying for.  If we don't all understand our roles with complete clarity, we'll start bugging out and hesitating when the time comes to act."

Jean's point hits startlingly close to home.  Hadn't you just been second-guessing everything you're supposed to do in a month because you don't understand your role clearly enough?  He's rarely right by your account, but when he is, he hits the nail right on the head; if you don't have an explicit comprehension of every facet of the situation, you'll make wrong calls at all the wrong moments from fear.

Perhaps you should talk to Levi about this, instead of asking him about human trafficking in the capital like you want to.  After all, this is a war, just as he's said, and you need to focus down hard and stop being a stupid hormonal teenager about it.

Jean appeals to your friends once more.  "We're all seeking reassurance from you here, Eren.  Look around at the people here who chose to die for you, and please, make sure to be very certain and careful when making your decisions, because you'll be weighing your own life against everything we're sacrificing for it, including our own."  He steps up close to you, closer than anyone short of your family and Levi has ever been, and your shoulders scrunch up under his hands as he seizes them, leaning in toward you.  Your mind is in all the wrong places, trepidation swiftly replacing the guilt, and he murmurs, "That's… that's all I want from you, okay?  Please, I'm… really counting on you to keep us alive.  Or make it… make it mean something."

You realize his voice is one crack away from breaking, and he's as close to crying as you are.

Your hands find his waist through his cloak, and you nod.  "I will."  Compelled by an empathy you're sure you'll smack yourself for later, you tug him toward you, and his hands clench over your shoulders in fluttering hesitation before he gives in and throws his arms around your neck, burying his nose behind your ear.  Your arms slide around him, holding him against you and rubbing a slow line over his back, and the silent tears slip out at last as his body is wracked with a sob.

The word hangs heavy, unspoken but more present than any of the living bodies that surround you.

_Marco._

Your fingers clutch his cloak, nails burrowing into the cotton, and you stain his hood with tears.

The idea still hasn't truly hit home yet that the boy you recommended into a leadership position is gone from the world and you'll never see him again, and you're sure it'll take a few days for it to really sink in just as it did with your mother, but even as surreal as the words are, they ache.

At your embrace, Armin whispers "oh my god" and Sasha mutters "I'm getting the fuck out of here" and skirts around you to follow the group departing toward the castle, but you hold him, refusing to budge.  Connie goes after Sasha, patting Jean's back as he goes, and Reiner follows behind, taking a moment to fluff your hair and give you a smile.

All your friends have left save Armin and Mikasa by the time Jean lets go, and when he does, he says nothing.  He sniffs wetly, stares down at you through tear-stained eyes and gives a short, silent nod, and then he's gone too.

Armin and Mikasa look to you, but you're not sure what they want you to say.  It's strange for you and Jean to be affectionate, you're aware, and you're pretty sure it will never happen again, but… it's something so shattering, you aren't sure how they could've expected anything normal out of either of you.  You're both drained, and at this point, you're sure all anyone wants is to get a meal and go to bed as much as you do.

Actually, the hug was nice, and you'd like to spend some time with your family, but later.  There's someone else you really want to hug right now, and you're determined to find him.

The edge of a soft orange glow in the barn doorway makes you think you've got a pretty good idea where to start.

You wave them off to join the others.  "I'll see you guys at dinner, okay?"

Mikasa nods, and Armin squeezes your hand, leading her toward the castle in the growing dark.

You move back to the barn at a speed walk, and the torchlight flickering inside his stall makes your heart leap.  You rush toward it, realizing how silly you look and slowing your pace only at the last few steps, peering around the wall.

It takes you a moment to find him because the stable still appears empty, but you notice him tucked into a corner and sitting on his favorite stool, his arms crossed tightly over his jacket and staring out into the field.

"Captain?"

His gaze whips up to you, and he rises abruptly, clearing his throat and dusting his hands against each other.  His movements are quick and jerky, almost mechanical, and as he moves toward you and reaches for the torch, it occurs to you that you might be misperceiving things through the veil of your own distress, but he might be just as upset as you are.

You reach for his hand, but withdraw it before you touch him, mumbling about not having washed yet.

His eyes follow your fingers, not meeting your own gaze, and his voice is dull and toneless.  "I'm not really feeling up to a group dinner tonight, Eren.  Forgive me."

You shrug, heart racing, wondering whether _group dinner_ means the mess hall alone and he means to include you in his plans, or if his strange tone and mannerisms indicate he'd rather be alone, period.  "Oh, of… of course, sir."

His eyes slide up the wall to the torch that he draws into hand, then flit over to your face, and after a moment's pause, he squints at you in the firelight.  "Have you been crying?"

Mention of tears inclines them to start again, and you control your face before you can break down.  "Just found out one of my best friends died in Trost."  The admission makes it real, and though you dam back the tears, your shoulders are trembling.  "You're right, Captain, you're completely right, it's a fucking war and people are dying and I don't have room to love people or get attached—"

"That's not what I said, Eren," he interrupts, his voice still quiet but no longer emotionless.  Tears are staining your face again, and he reaches to brush them away with his cuff as best he can.  You pull your shirt sleeve over your fist and blot the rest.  He takes your fingers in his own, interlacing them, and says, "We've still got some leftovers in the cooker upstairs, and I have some granola too.  I don't think you finished your sandwich, either."

You're not sure how he managed to keep the pork from going bad, but given his past, you have confidence he would have found a way.

You'd love to hear more about his past, even if it's just a distraction from thinking about Marco, even if it's irresponsible of you to feel the way you do about Levi, and you squeeze his fingers in your own.

"Sounds like dinner to me."

He smiles, leading the way toward the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
> _STOP. There is a Levi one-shot after this chapter. Before you read the next chapter,[read Iris ⇒](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1092016)_  
>  **


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains more than seven thousand words, and I regret none of them.
> 
>  **Before you read this chapter, be sure you've read[Iris](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1092016).** It takes place between this chapter and the last, and briefly explains Levi's perspective.
> 
> As always, be sure to bookmark the [entire series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/57837) to keep track of all updates for this arc.

Levi turns out to exceed your expectations in food preservation.  After scrubbing yourselves up to the elbows, you start your shared meal at the desk, but Levi quickly elects to shed his jacket and harness, stripping down to undershirt and jeans, and take his dinner in bed.  You turn in your seat to watch him go — not entirely to ogle his ass, you swear — and you definitely don't blush for fear that he's caught you when he glances toward you over his shoulder.  He nods toward the bed, silently inviting you to join him, and the hesitation in your movements betrays your doubt.

"Spill a single crumb, and I'll skin you," he says, but he gives you a playful smile, and you pull off your own outerwear and meet him under the covers.

The two of you clear your plates in relative silence, punctuated only by him getting up to refill his tin mug from the tea he's kept warming in the cooker, and you're proud of your dexterity in keeping your food contained during consumption.  When you're down to the last few bites of sandwich and he's halfway through his third mug of tea, both plates abandoned to the nightstand, your arms begin to ache with the hug you've been craving since learning about Marco, and his waist is looking very appealing.  You wonder if casually going for it would be appropriate, or if he'd kick you through a wall.

You decide that after the events of last night and this morning, you wouldn't be out of line in initiating contact so long as he knows you're clean, and since he observed how thoroughly you scoured your hands and you haven't left his sight since, you figure it's okay.

Nestling closer, you settle into his side and wrap your arms around him, shoving the last of the sandwich in your mouth.  It's beyond full and you have difficulty chewing, but at least you won't get breadcrumbs on him.  He lets you squeeze him as he drains the last of his tea, and when it's gone, he places the cup on the nightstand with a metallic clink and hugs you around the shoulders.

You can't tell if it's from affection or if it's a gesture of comfort, and you kind of don't care.  He smells so good, his arms around you firm and secure, and his body under yours is solid and unyielding and _there_ , and the undeniable presence of him is a comfort you've needed for a long time.  You've needed it longer than today, longer than your stay at headquarters, longer than your time since Trost; you've needed it since the fall of Maria, maybe even all your life.  Never, when someone has said "it's okay," have you believed them, but Levi isn't saying anything at all and you believe him.

_It's okay.  I've got you.  I'm not going anywhere._

With a wordless grunt, you nuzzle him so forcefully it pushes him back, and he falls onto the pillows with a laugh, the high sparkling sound you'd missed earlier in the field.  It makes you hug him tighter, clenching your arms around him in a position that must be uncomfortable, but he strokes your hair and allows you to hold him without comment for what feels like hours, until your grip relaxes naturally.

His voice soft, he tells you he wants to refill his tea one more time, and then you can both call it a night.

You let him up, and as you both sit, you notice the damp patch on his shirt where your face had been.  He wipes your cheek with the pad of his thumb, and it comes away wet.

You'd been so caught up in feeling him, you hadn't realized you'd been crying.

It makes you want to cry harder.

He sweeps your hair back and plants a gentle kiss on your forehead, rising from the bed before you have time to process what he's just done.

By the time you do, he's stripped off the dampened shirt and taken it to the washroom with the rest of your clothes.  It occurs to you to wonder where the clothes are that you washed this morning, but the thought is gone as quickly as it emerges, because he returns from the washroom wearing nothing.

You try very hard not to stare.

You succeed only marginally.

You saw it all this morning, so you're not sure what the big deal is, but somehow, at night and while you're in his bed, it feels different.

He turns his back to you as he refills his mug a final time, and as he rests his weight on one hip, the shape his ass takes makes you swear you can hear the crescendo of that music playing again.

He moves toward your side of the bed.

Your heart flutters so hard you can feel it twitching in your throat, and your breath hitches for a moment until you realize he's heading for the wardrobe, and he pulls out another set of underwear.

"You don't, um," you stammer, scratching your head to distract yourself from having to look at him.  "You don't have to.  Like after… yesterday, I kind of.  Don't care."

You're not watching his face, but you're sure he's smiling, because the amusement is evident in his teasing voice.  "Do you still think it's strange for us both to be naked, or are you gonna strip down too?"

"Sure, I uh, yeah," you splutter, and you pull off what clothing you're still wearing as he climbs onto the bed and shuffles across you on his knees to his own side, chuckling at your clumsy haste.  He arranges the pillows into a more comfortable setup, and once you're both nude and settled, his steaming mug in hand, he sinks back into the pillows and holds an arm out for you to resume your position at his side.  You huddle close, and his arm drapes over your shoulders.

With your chin propped on the joint of his shoulder, you can see the top edge of the hickey you left last night.

You're tempted to give him another one, but with him holding a cup of scalding tea, you're not sure that would be a good idea.

You settle for a quick kiss on his cheek, and you've buried your own in his shoulder before he can look at you, your heart pounding.  He chuckles and fluffs your hair, bumping your head with his chin before turning back to gulping his tea.  You don't understand how he can drink something that's practically still boiling, but he lets out a sigh of contentment and smacks his lips.  Beneath your hand on his sternum, you swear you can feel the heat of the tea slide all the way down his chest.

You're pretty sure you're not going to fall asleep like this, but in light of his strange behavior in the barn a moment ago, the silence feels a bit strange without any activity to fill it.

"Sir?"

He hums a prompt, but the subject you were about to start is pretty heavy, and you're not sure if you should take it.

"I was, um…"  You twirl a finger in the vine of coarse hair trailing down from his navel.  "I was gonna ask more about this, uh… forcible enlistment thing.  But it seemed like you were in a pretty delicate mood outside there, so if you don't wanna talk about it right now that's fine.  I just wanted to let you know I'm still interested."

He swallows his mouthful and sets the cup on the nightstand, and both of his hands move into your hair, pushing it into styles and shapes you're sure look as ridiculous as they feel.

His voice resonates through your cheek.

"It was just me and my gang that got roped in that day, though I'd heard about larger raids before.  I'd kept armed just in case, because like hell they were dragging me outside the walls only to throw me into a titan mouth, no fuckin' way.  Isabel and Farlan were strangely okay with it, though.  They were always more adventurous than I was."  He pauses to disentangle his fingers from the knots they've formed in your hair, combing them out.  "Once I got caught, they went where I went, so we all went in at once."

"The gang was just the three of you?"

"Yeah," he says, as if this should've been obvious.  "The bigger a ring, the more susceptible you are to moles and defectors, don't you know this shit?  Jesus."

You furrow your brow against his shoulder.  "Hanji made it sound like there's this huge mob or something.  She even talked about the rules of it."

"I don't know anything about that," he laughs.  "For all I know, there are.  Seems pretty likely that there's bigger gangs than the little one I stumbled upon.  But that's not how we handled things."

You smile to yourself, thinking that if only Hanji could hear how wrong she is, you could torture her with teasers for years.  "Where'd they end up?  Why aren't they still here with you?"

His chest tightens under your cheek, his voice strained.  "Died.  Right in front of me.  Titans, both."

Your heart drops.  "Shit, I'm—"

"No," he murmurs, "it happens.  Sixty percent, right?"  You trace the folds of his relaxed stomach, and he must pick up on your sympathy through your touches, because his hands leave your hair to squeeze your shoulder and trail down your back, and he says, "Not easy, learning to let go.  Erwin took it harder than I did, which was pretty surprising, given he'd cared so little up 'til that moment."

You nuzzle his collarbone, and he pets your shoulder blade, picking at tiny blemishes across your back.  You decide to let that topic go.  "How did you get caught?"

"Erwin.  And it was pretty forcible.  But it wasn't for the same reason as most."  Intrigued, you lift your head to rest your chin on his shoulder again.  His gaze has settled in dead air somewhere around his desk, flicking toward you occasionally as he speaks.  "Most of the time, they get grabbed up because they're young and easy to pick off and they're willing to jump to their deaths if it means getting fed and going outside the walls.  But with me and my gang… they were young, yeah, but I wasn't.  They weren't the real targets in the first place, though.  They were the typical street rats — young, ran away from home, thrill seeking and poor.  I never actually found out where they came from, but I know they had last names."

That phrasing confuses you.  "What, like you don't?"

His shoulder shrugs beneath your chin.  "I know I was given one at some point, sure, but it wasn't _mine_ ; as far as I know, it was just the name of the man who took me under his wing until I broke loose.  I hated being around him, and as soon as I could manage surviving on my own, I did.  I don't remember much of my time before him, and I don't remember who my parents are.  I know my first name, I know my birth date and year, but nothing more really, and I don't even know how I know that much.  I never bothered to find out my gang's birthdays or ages either, but probably I had a good ten years on them."  You're fascinated by his talk of this mystery man who raised him for a while, but the snarl in his voice and sourness in his face when he tiptoes into the subject makes you think it would probably be a bad thing to ask more about.  "Regardless… we, or should I say I, got targeted because we stole maneuver gear.  Farlan started it, but I was damn good at it."

This is the first you've heard the target product of his black market pawning.  While you are shocked that he'd set his sights so high and that something so valuable could be stolen, at the same time, you can now understand very well how such a commodity would be highly coveted among the wealthy capital citizens, necessitating a transformation in Levi's presentation, and how desirable it must have been for the Corps to encounter someone pre-trained in equipment whose usage normally takes three years to teach.  A lot of things from your past studying him and the Corps are suddenly beginning to make sense.

"No wonder you're so skilled with it now."

"Of course.  Problem is, gaining a reputation means people are going to hear about you that you don't necessarily want hearing about you.  And Erwin had to see me in action for himself before he made a move, so he'd revealed himself and I knew he was coming, but it wasn't enough.  He wasn't commander yet, but he ranked high enough to make his own calls with that kind of thing, and even though I was armed enough to handle him alone, he wasn't alone.  It was actually Mike that caught up with me, but Erwin was the one who cut the strings and cornered me.  And it was on Erwin's orders that Mike pinned my face in the mud."

The image is so vivid and unexpected, it makes your breath catch, your fingers tightening around him.

He scratches your shoulder gently in reassurance.  "As you can tell," he mutters, "Erwin has quite a penchant for having his right hand man break the face of the next person he's got in his sights."

The parallel he draws with that brings back the sharp memory of being chained to the floor with Levi's knee rammed up your nose, your teeth skittering across the tile, and the expression of utter inhuman emptiness his features had adopted — the same expression he'd taken this very afternoon during your brawl.

A brawl where he'd told you that as soon as attachments become dangerous to your mental health, you have to sever them, if only temporarily.

A thought dawns upon you, and your stomach twists into coils.

Maybe you're getting ahead of yourself, but you think you're starting to put together the pieces you hadn't realized were in front of you until this moment, because during that match, you're pretty sure you were making the exact same face — the face indicating you'd shoved your affection aside to do what needed to be done.

If he was making the same face, does that mean he was doing it for the same reason?

…and at the tribunal, too?

Does that mean he feels just as drawn to you and affectionate for you as you feel for him?  That he's felt it all along, since the very beginning?

The moment on the settee in the debriefing chamber afterward — _do you resent me?_ — flashes through your mind, and looking back, you realize the carefully controlled indifference of his features.  He was unwilling to prematurely divulge the inner workings of his mind that you've since come to know so well, but at that point, could have been a colossal dissolution of your image of him, which needed to remain intact… and, you concurrently realize, was also a tightly controlled construct the entire time, an image you needed to retain until they'd put you into your place among them.  If Erwin wants everyone to view Levi as Humanity's Strongest, infallible and aloof, then he's done a splendid job, because you were so deceived by it you never noticed until this moment just how much he's been acting.

And if he's felt drawn to you, and then was made to take the same tactic that had been used against him to force him into a life he didn't want, and use that very tactic against you — _you_ , the object of his affection and a willing recruit to the same fate he'd resisted…

You can't imagine the anguish he must have felt in that moment.

And he's hidden it so fucking well, never bringing up how much it must still eat at him every time he looks at you.  No wonder he stiffened and shut down so abruptly when you'd made a joke about it.  It will never be a flippant topic to him.  Never.

You don't know how he manages to look Erwin in the eye, to voluntarily keep himself in the man's company, and do nothing.

"How can you still trust him?"

You're not sure if you're both talking about the tribunal, but it doesn't matter, because you imagine his answer would have been the same.  "It's complicated."  He reaches for his teacup and carefully swirls the contents.  "He doesn't necessarily have a moral stake in loss of life or limb, or in the emotional impact of acts of war, but… he does appreciate that other people do, and he doesn't expect more of anyone than they're able to give."

"So you were able to give that, at the tribunal?"

"To save your life?"  He meets your gaze, his face distressed but convicted.  "Yes."

He's so unbearably close to you, his mouth an inch from yours, and you're dying to press forward and kiss him, to thank him for everything he's suffered through just to save your ungrateful whiny ass, but he turns back to his mug.

"I didn't want to."

"I know."  You hug his waist tighter against you.  "But I'm glad you did.  Anyone else, I wouldn't have been able to forgive."

He sighs and tips his head to lean his temple against your forehead.  "I know.  That's what he told me.  It had to be me.  Anyone else and we'd risk sowing the seeds of doubt in you toward the Corps and turning you against us.  But he could tell you had a lot more room for forgiveness where I was concerned."

That makes you frown.  "How?"

"Beats me.  Typical Erwin level deductive reasoning.  But he was very clear about it — I was your only hope for survival, and our only hope for keeping your trust.  If I wanted to save you, I had to break you.  It was the only option I was given, and the only one I could see at the time.  But I didn't want to.  I hated it."  He brings the cup to his mouth, his hand curled over the top of it, and murmurs, "I still hate it."  He drinks deeply, and you tilt your chin to lay another soft kiss on his fleshy cheek as he swallows.

He lowers the cup slowly, as if afraid of dropping it, and just as slowly, he turns to meet your face.  His arm shifts on your shoulders, keeping you in place exactly where you are.  His nose brushes yours.

You swallow hard on nothing, your tongue dry all the way down your throat.  "I know," you whisper, words dragging on the rough dryness in your mouth, "how hard it is to turn away from someone and let them get hurt."  You're trying very hard not to think of your mother, because it's not quite the same thing, and you'd rather not let the appreciative mood die in favor of more crying.  You squeeze your fingers into his waist.  "Thank you, Captain."

He pulls in a sharp breath, and you're not sure for a moment what action it could signal from him, bracing yourself and trying to control your racing heart.  He turns away, replacing his cup on the nightstand, and his voice is jarringly normal as he asks, "Why do you never address me by my name?"

The question sticks in your ears like the wax that forms after a shower.  "I don't know if I'm allowed," you mumble, unable to meet his gaze anymore.  "And I didn't want to ask because it's like.  Way too familiar and insubordinate."

"We've shared a bed naked.  We're doing it right now.  And you don't think you can call me by name?"

His tone is turning hard, and it's making your stomach roll.  You wish this hadn't come up.  "I don't know."

"Do you still just think of me as your commanding officer at the end, when push comes to shove?"

"No."  Your face burns, and you tack on, "I know I should, but I don't."

"What would you call me, then?"

You're not sure if he's looking for a label or if he's asking you to call him by name.  "I dunno, I'll call you whatever you wanna be called.  We're like… we're close, right?  I just… I don't know," you give up, drawing your head back to rest your forehead on the edge of his shoulder.

His next question is quiet, too calm for your comfort.  "What are you doing here?"

You have absolutely no idea what that's supposed to mean.  You almost say _Sir?_ but his negative reaction to being called captain stills your tongue, and all that comes out is "Huh?"

"Why are you here, in this room?"

Is this a test?  If so, you're probably going to fail; he's being unfathomable, and you can't read him when you're flustered like this.  You'd thought that just a moment ago you'd figured out he's harboring a lot more affection for you than you'd realized, but now you have no idea anymore.  "Because… I want to be?  And you invited me, so I figured it's okay?"

"Why would you want to be here?"  You lift your head to meet his eyes, but his gaze has returned to stare emptily at the dead airspace at the end of the bed, his eyebrows bunched in genuine, pained confusion.  "Why, when you were just…"  He shakes his head, and he murmurs, "when you could have stayed with them?"

His countenance, his phrasing, your growing suspicions of his suppressed affection, and the meticulously controlled wavering of his voice that you only detect because you're so attuned to him, all roll into one and crash into you with the sudden shock that you know _exactly_ what he's trying to ask because it's the _exact_ same thing you've been asking yourself every single waking moment since he first offered to tutor you:

_Why me?_

"Oh," you breathe, and his eyes close against your realization, but you don't think you've ever felt so relieved in your entire life.  It sinks in at last that you have both been awkwardly tiptoeing around the other all this time, wondering what on earth you could have done to have earned the other's attention, except you haven't had the slightest clue of his side and he's been aware of both.  His rampage of two nights ago makes all the sense in the world.  This is what has been bothering him.  This is the decision he didn't want to make.  You hadn't known it at the time, but you'd told him to do just the thing that you've been yearning for him to do every day since.  "Levi," you whisper, a smile forming despite yourself, "Levi…"

"Don't get all gushy on me now," he mutters, but there's resigned laughter in his voice, and the look he turns to you as he opens his eyes again is equally amenable.

You rake his hair back toward his ears just like he does, and it doesn't stay for you just like it won't for him.  "How could anyone possibly know you and not love you?"

"Because I'm a grumpy old man with an irrational aversion to blood and shit and doorknobs," he mumbles, "and a horrific past and a bloodthirsty streak that precedes me and absolutely nothing of redeeming value."

"Maybe," you cajole, "but I like all those things."

"Then you're a freak."

"Took you long enough to notice."  He chuckles, and you ask, "Why would you like _me_ , anyways?  The whole world wants you; what does some dumb teenager have that you can't get anywhere else?"

He shoots you a withering look that says you should know the answer to that already.  "You're adorable.  And you're exciting.  You're different, you're… _alive_."  He flattens the covers over your laps.  "That sounds stupid."

"No it doesn't."

He glances up from his hands for a second, but can't hold your gaze.  "You're the only one who's ever bothered to try to know me."

"And I do know you."  You've been hesitant to believe it before, but you're sure of it now.  You hook a leg over his, not caring anymore how naked you both are, and you take his hand in yours, lacing your fingers through his and kneading the soft webbing between them.  "Levi, who else could fascinate me with heartbreaking backstory about the nature of their bowel movements?"  He snorts, and you tug yourself closer, relishing the molding of his flesh into yours.  "Who else could teach me how to waltz _and_ to elbow somebody into a coma within twenty-four hours of each other?  Who else could give me the uniquely enriching experience of washing my hair with a raw egg?"

"Your hair smells really good, by the way," he chuckles, running fingers through it for emphasis.

"Does it?"

"Smells like hops.  Like mine," he says, tilting his head for you to take a whiff.  You slide your arm up from around him to run his hair through your fingers, letting the scent drift over to you, and he's right, it does smell good, warm and tangy and strangely not at all like you both rubbed alcohol into your scalps.

"See this is what I mean," you giggle, hugging him against you.  "You're so much _fun_ , Levi, you're… you're my fucking _hero_ , okay, I'm crazy about you and I've adored you since the first time I saw you."

"I remember that," he murmurs, and you howl with embarrassed laughter in a sound that might be the words _oh my god you do fucking not_ , and he assures you, "No, I do.  You were adorable."  He lets you laugh yourself out and he strokes your arm until, possessed by a calm and a confidence you can't explain and don't want to try to, you let go of his hand to cradle his cheek.  He moves with the pull of your fingers to meet your gaze, his face a breath away from yours.

"I love your face," you whisper, "even though you look the way you do because of some awful shit, I love the way you look, and I'm so fucking proud of you for living through it and coming out this strong.  I love your hands and how they feel on my skin, I love your body and how strong you are inside and out, I love your sense of humor, how you face insecurity with silliness and how you combat defiance with anger, I love how you never stop fighting.  I just…"  Your fingers trail from his cheek down to the soft line of his jaw, down his throat to dip into the hollow between his collarbones.  "Fuck, I don't care if I'm not supposed to — I really love you, okay?"

The candlelight dances in his grey eyes, his long eyelashes brushing high on his cheekbones for a blink, and they come away with a smile, a real one, and it pushes tiny dimples into the corners of his mouth.  "That is more than okay, Eren."

His head tilts, his arm around your shoulders pulling you in, and this time, at last, there's nothing stopping you.

His lips press into yours, and they're full and sweet and every bit as soft as you'd imagined.

The room is spinning, your chest is on fire, and you have no way of knowing how long your first kiss lasts before the two of you part with a gentle sticking sound, both shivering and giggling and breathless.

His eyes pore over your face, drinking you in, as you do to him, taking in the pink flush of his lips and the dimples you'd never noticed, the intricate beauty of his irises this close to yours, the perfect line of his hooded eyelids over his endless lashes.  As you watch each other, a different sensation begins to wash over you, slowly replacing your demure jitters with a certainty and a desire that makes your trembling breath go still.  His eyelids have gone heavy, and his fingers rise from your lap to slip into your hair, bringing you back to him.

If your first kiss is candlelight, your second is the explosion of cannon fire.

His mouth crashes into yours with enough clout to push you upright from leaning on him, his hand in your hair pinning your mouth to his, and his kisses grow deeper and faster, every break of your mouths feeling like a drop of water into a fire, irritating and unwanted.  His lips move in a way that pull yours open, and his tongue dips in, quick and shallow, leaving a rich aftertaste of malty black tea.

He _does_ taste as good as he smells.

Your tongue chases his into his mouth, seeking more of that essence, and as the tip of your tongue traces the back of his teeth, he responds by going to his knees and rolling you over completely, seizing you by the hips and dragging you down the mattress to lie flat on your back, the press of his mouth on yours pushing your head into the sheets.  You let out a moan into his mouth, and he eats it up, swallows all your needy noises, carefully taking your tongue between his teeth and sucking gently.  His hands slide down your bare thighs, spreading your legs as they move, and he settles between them on his knees, going to all fours over you.

Your hands slide down the delicious curve of his back, teasing into the dimples at the base of his spine like thumbprints into clay, and you take his ass into your fingers without a moment's trepidation, gripping as much cheek into each palm as you can.

His ass is thick and squeezable and downright juicy, overflowing from between your fingers, and your imagination came nowhere near doing it justice.

At the prompting of your hands, his hips dip down to rut against yours, his erection dragging across your lower belly and grinding yours into the inner bend of his thigh.

Your head tosses back and you break from his mouth with a shout, your hips flexing up into that wonderfully warm friction.  His mouth is on your throat as if it's been there all along, teeth grazing your skin and drawing it into his mouth with suction, and oh _god_ if this is what he'd felt last night, you have no query anymore why he'd made the noises he had.  You can't control the sounds your mouth is making, high and throaty and desperate, and you're sure you sing praises comparing Levi to more than one deity, the sensations he evokes in you threatening to draw out a liturgy worthy of the wall cult.  He growls against your skin, his hips grinding into yours with a mounting fervor, and your legs clinch around his.

His lips close into a kiss over your skin and make a trail with kisses to just beneath your ear, each one punctuated by a thrust of his hips.

"Eren," he whispers, and you whimper from the husky cadence of his voice, your hands scrabbling over his back and digging nails into the muscle.  "What do you want me to do?"  You whine and match the slow roll of his hips and you _don't fucking know, don't care, just don't stop god don't stop_ , and you must have said that out loud because he chuckles against the tender spot under your ear.  "Do you want me to fuck you?"

The notion sends heat shooting from your stomach all the way up to your face, and the drag of his skin across you is more than you can bear.  " _Yes_ ," you just about scream, and you're conscious of that one, " _yes,_ please yes, _please_ ," and he's laughing at your eagerness but you don't care, you don't fucking _care_ how embarrassing you are or who does what just so long as you find as much of you touching as much of him as possible.

He draws back with a chuckle, but the sight of him panting and flushed over you with his hair hanging in his smiling face makes your gut clench up with longing, and you immediately pull him back down for a kiss.  You can't be bothered to care that your teeth clack into his because holy shit, this is really happening, you're making out with Levi and you're rolling around naked with Levi and he wants to _fuck you, holy shit._

He pulls back with one more kiss, twisting away from you to open the drawer of the nightstand.

With that movement, you are acutely aware that he keeps something sex-related in that drawer, and you're not sure how to feel about the fact that he's had this stuff on hand.  He's told you that you're the first person he's invited to his bed that he can remember; has he been meaning to do something sexy with you?  Does he always carry sexy stuff with him?

He turns back to you and brushes the hair from your forehead, and you decide to find the answers to those questions at another time.  Curiosity later, sex now.

His voice is ragged, and it makes you rut against him, but bless him, he tries to stay focused.  "I assume that by 'fuck you,' you mean me inside you."

"I don't care," you whine, "do whatever you want, I literally don't fucking care, I just want you."

He laughs, but it's breathless and on the edge of losing control.  "Okay, that's what we're going for then.  I need to tell you, though — stop moving, pay attention," he commands, his words at odds with the roughness of his voice, and you force yourself to meet his eyes and lie still.  "As you could probably tell from the state of my guts, I haven't had any personal experience with this, so I don't _really_ know what I'm talking about here, but… I'm given to understand that this is kind of uncomfortable.  So if at any point you don't like it or you want to stop, tell me."  His eyes pore over you, analyzing your reaction, and you just shrug and nod, having no idea what to expect but being perfectly willing to try it with him.  His thumb traces your cheekbone.  "You're not going to lose me if you say no.  I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

You're not worried about losing him now that you've come so far — you'd let titans rip you limb from limb before you'd let him leave you — but you're glad that he's taking the time to tend to you like this.  Relief and affection flood through you, and without a word, you draw him down for a kiss, slow and deep.  Part of you still can't accept this as reality, and your hands caress his face, his neck, his shoulders, memorizing the curves of his collarbones and the ripples of his stomach, committing the swells of his chest and back and butt to memory, comparing the body you've hugged and spooned and danced with to the form moving above you now and finding them identical, though you still can't reconcile them because this one is infinitely more precious.

His hand slides down your side and over your hip to find your length and wrap around it, and the contact of his fingers against you feels like sparks under your skin.  You pull away from your kiss, gasping for air that won't come, as his hand begins to move.

Your back curves and your head tips forward, planting your forehead against the mark you left on his neck last night, and each slide of his hand draws another low groan from you.

He whispers your name, moving down to lock his mouth on your throat again, and your head falls back with a whimper.  His touch is euphoric, every millimeter of friction making another bright spot pop behind your eyes, but you need more.

Your hand slips down to touch him in kind.

He gasps, a dry choking sound, and for a moment as your hand gently twists and slides over him, he forgets to move his own.  His skin feels different in a way you can't quite define, as though he's got more of it than you do, and when you stretch it up over the hard swell of the head, he pants into your collarbone, thrusting unevenly into your palm.

You jerk your hips into his hand in turn, and rather than resuming his ministrations, he opens a small opaque jar on the mattress and dips a finger inside.  It comes out glinting clear and viscous in the candlelight.  You're not sure what it is, but you've got a good idea what it's for, and you can't wait anymore to figure out why he has it.

"Levi."  His name feels strange in your mouth, so accustomed to calling him _sir_ or _captain_ , and you relish the change as he meets your gaze.  "Where'd you get that?"

He grins, leaning down to brush his nose over yours.  "Where'd you get your sweater vest?"

You have no idea what implications could be hidden there, but you don't like any of them.  "Why did she give that to you?"

"Because I asked if she had any."  He pecks you on the tip of your nose, then rubs his first two fingers together with his thumb, spreading the substance around.  "You have no idea how happy she is to be of assistance where you and I are concerned."

"I have every idea," you mutter, "and it's fucking creepy."

"Yeah," he chuckles, "but right now, I'm not inclined to complain."

His mouth returns to your throat, sucking spots in a trail down your chest, and you can't find the inclination to complain either.

He shuffles backward down the mattress, and his length slips from your reach, but you don't think he minds.  His tongue flicks over one of your nipples, and you cry out as your hips arch off the bed, searching for the warm pressure of his skin.  His eyes flit up to meet yours, and you could just about slap him for driving you so crazy with his lips and gaze alone.

"This really is gonna feel weird," he warns, his voice soft.  "You sure you're ready?"

You nod, and something slips out that might be a _yes_ but you're not sure and you kind of don't care, you're sure he gets the idea through your needy whining.

His mouth returns to your chest, coaxing a dark spot under one of your pectorals, and a hand encircles your shaft to heighten your waning senses as a slick finger presses lower, rubbing tenderly over your flesh and making your hips jump and twitch, until you're relaxed enough for his finger to slip inside.

It feels good at the opening itself, but deeper in, it just feels strange.  Things aren't supposed to be moving like that down there.

You don't think your faces and noises are entirely pleased anymore, and it takes his voice inquiring after your well-being for you to realize he's no longer kissing your chest.  You try to make a noise to affirm you're okay, you're not in pain and you don't want to stop without giving yourself a chance to acclimatize, but you aren't sure whether your noise conveys the proper sentiment, because he still asks, "How does it feel?"

The sliding of his hand over your shaft feels incredible and distracts from the jarring strangeness of his finger twisting inside you, but while the lubricant makes for no drag or discomfort, the sensation is still new and unusual.  You try to generate a detailed and accurate summation, but all that comes out is, "Weird."

"Weird good or weird bad?"

His finger curls a bit, making you gasp.  "Just weird."

"Does it hurt?"  You shake your head firmly, and he asks, "Want me to stop?"

"No," you insist, trying to lock your legs around him and pull him closer, but moving your legs changes the angle of his finger and makes his fingertip brush a spot inside you that steals your breath and makes the room go black.

You're not in control of your body or aware of what you're doing for a moment as your vision swims, and when it returns, your hands are fisted in the sheets and you can't catch your breath, your knees clamped above his hips.  Your hearing has gone fuzzy, and it takes you a moment to realize he's laughing at you.

"That feel good?"  You nod so fast you get dizzy, and he says, "I'm gonna add another, okay?"

You nod but don't bother answering aloud.  Your feet hit the bed, twisting your hips to try to find that spot again, and he tells you to stay still, the tip of a second lubricated finger sliding in to join the first.  It still feels good at the start but weird deeper in, but if he finds that spot again, you don't think it will be any kind of a problem at all.

His hand pumps over you with gentle tugs as his fingers glide in and out of you at a matched pace, and you wonder if he's ambidextrous.

The sensation is strange and different, no doubt, but as he keeps moving, your reaction slowly moves from aversion to acceptance, and instead of feeling so weird you're not sure if you like it, you're beginning to enjoy the stimulation.  His fingers push deeper and deeper, and though the stretch at the front is uncomfortable, the smooth sliding of his fingers into the tightness of your skin feels really good in a way that's almost ticklish.

You're about to give commentary, but you don't get the chance.

His fingertips curl on a downstroke, and you just about go through the roof, because he's found the spot and he's rubbing it firmly and it feels _really goddamn good_.  Your hands are in his hair, you're pretty sure you're making some noteworthy inhuman noises, and you can't gather enough of him between your writhing legs.

His laughter permeates your senses.  "Hey, I think he likes it!"

You want to kick him and tell him to shut up, but he flicks his fingers again, and your retort dissolves into a quavering squeal.  Your skin melts under his touches, and you feel like you've fused with the mattress, every shift of his fingers on that spot a thrill bordering on mania.  You don't know what sounds you're making or if any words are coming out among them, your entire being focused on the press of his fingers inside you — _shit_ it's incredible and you hope it never stops, _don't stop, please don't fucking stop_.

"I'm not planning to," he assures you, and you don't care if you're saying this shit out loud or not.  His hand on your length tightens just enough to remind you it's there, thumb sliding over the head in time with the curl of his fingers inside you, and the combined sensation tips you over the edge.

A hot coil tightened in your gut springs free, and a tension you hadn't noticed building in your joints suddenly releases, your body rolling with the waves of climax.  You can't tell if you're trying to breathe or if you just plain can't, don't know if you've shut your eyes or they've rolled back or if they've simply forgotten how to work, but your mouth gapes and your vision blanks and the movements of both his hands slow, helping you ride it out until it's over and you feel boneless and reeling and steaming, as if your entire body has become a shooting star that just crashed and burned out in his bed.

His hands slip free from you, and he bends over you to press a kiss to your cheek.  "Don't move a muscle," he whispers, and you nod breathlessly, trying to remember what words are and how to form them as he slips out of bed and darts toward the washroom.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I was supposed to update over Christmas, but I spent too much time watching _Lord of the Rings_ and wandering through bookstores and talking about updates instead of writing them, and this turned out really short as a result because I'm too tired to make it any longer at 2am. Sorry about that.
> 
> Sometimes I hoard comments in my inbox because they're so nice and I'm a big wiggly weenie and I don't know how to reply to them for like four years, so my replies are really delayed if they arrive at all. Sorry about that too.
> 
> This chapter is porn.
> 
> I'm not sorry about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fanart from [pyromaniacqueen](http://pyromaniacqueen.tumblr.com/post/74142628012), and more from [Cato](http://catos.co.vu/post/71860631893)! (links are nsfw, obviously)

The hiss of the tap doesn't run quite long enough for you to return to your senses, but it is sufficient time for the lubricated patch between your legs to go cold and tacky.

Levi returns with a hand towel saturated in vinegar and tosses it at you before hastening back to the washroom.

You sort of resent being smeared up and then left to clean yourself, but you suppose you'd be infinitely more embarrassed if he'd tried to wipe your ass like an infant, so you blot the excess as best you can and carefully maneuver out of the bed to pad across the floorboards after him.  Moving is an interesting sensation; your knees feel like toothpicks trying to support a building, as though the slightest offset in balance will make them buckle, and your lower stomach still tingles with the afterglow of climactic stimulation to a body part you didn't even know you had.

For a moment, you remember you must've discharged a fair amount of seminal fluid and wonder where it went, but Levi pouring straight vinegar onto his palm in the sink clears that question right up.

Standing in the doorway, you refold the towel and clean yourself better until your skin feels smooth and you smell like a salad.  You're sure he's noticed your presence, but he hasn't indicated so, focusing all his attention toward dissolving the various gunk from his hands and muttering something under his breath about the stickiness.

He's leaning all his weight onto one hip, and you no longer feel obligated to resist the overwhelming urge to touch him.

You step up behind him and make an obnoxious point of reaching around him to sit the used towel on the countertop, and when your crotch bumps into his butt, you utter a teasingly insincere "oops, sorry" and grope his ass with both hands as if to stabilize yourself.

He snorts.  "You're not subtle."

"I'm not trying to be."

"Good; neither am I."  He reaches back to seize one of your wrists and drag your hand around his hip to press it over his dick, receded to half mast from the tedium of cleaning but already swelling again at your touch.

You rest your chin on the mark you left on his neck last night, and he glances at you without a word.  He continues to scrub his hands and rinse the sink and gives no further indication, by gesture or word, of what he wants you to do, but you think his intent is fairly obvious.

You take his length into your palm and slide your fingers over it slowly.

Immediately, his head falls back against your collar with a sigh, his butt flexing against your hips as he rocks into your hand.  You stare down the lines of his body, extolling the shapes of his chest and stomach from this angle and the movements they make as they shift with his breathing, growing more heated with each stroke of your hand.  He tries to keep washing the sink, but you give a slight turn of the wrist as you move over the head, and his lips part in a soft moan, his hands clutching the countertop.

You grin to yourself at having commanded his undivided attention.

He fumbles for a clean towel to dry his hands before thrusting one into your hair, gripping a fistful hard enough to make you hiss and ask him to ease off.  He does, but just enough that you're not distracted by it, and you quicken the slide of your hand in reward.  He leans his head against your cheek, his fingers contracting and relaxing in your hair with a pace to match the flex of his butt and the clench of his stomach, little gasps and whines escaping his open mouth.

You watch his face in the mirror, the twitches that pass over his lips and eyebrows, the way his Adam's apple bobs when he sucks in a stuttering gasp and the surreptitious glances toward your hand moving over him.

You still can't help but feel that there's an enormous disparity between the feel of your own dick in your hand and the easy slide of his skin, as though he's got an excessive amount to spare.  From sheer fascination, you unconsciously shift your focus from simply rubbing him the way you would yourself to stretching this surplus of skin, feeling it move under your fingers.  Apparently this is a good decision, because his eyebrows pinch and a groan pours from him and a hand flies to your ass, squeezing a cheek like molding clay.  He turns his head to nuzzle your jaw.  His hand tightens in your hair, pulling your head forward, and he nips teeth over your throat, his mouth finding purchase under your jaw and sucking a mark to the surface.

His palm gripping your ass has you starting to harden again, and your groin throbs in protest, but you push the interruptions aside to devote further attention to his dick and its fascinating abundance of skin.

He kisses up the line of your jaw to whisper in your ear.  "Faster."

You obey, tightening your hold a little, and he grunts in response, his eyes buried in your cheek and his mouth gasping against your neck.

He tries to form words and can't, but you get the idea anyway, the underside of his length swelling in your hand.

You aim him as best you can into the sink, and he shudders in your arms, his butt tightening against you with his release, his head lolling back with a serene expression, his eyebrows knit into a point.

The line of his neck in the mirror is too tempting for you to resist, and you plant your mouth in the crook of his neck, nibbling and suckling out mark after mark across his shoulder and up his throat.  When you reach his jaw, he turns his head to meet you, and the open-mouthed kiss you share is at such a strange angle that you both mutually spin him the rest of the way to kiss you properly.  His hands have both found your hair, trailing down the back of your neck and gripping your shoulders as he pulls your tongue into his mouth.

You kiss him until your mouth feels like rubber and you've almost become desensitized to the taste of his tea.  Almost.

He's the one who stops it, after what feels like hours, because he says his hands need to be washed so badly he can feel it.  You snort, but let him slip out of your arms and turn back to the sink.

"Oh," you muse, "I meant to tell you but I forgot — what if we heat up water in the cooker and use that for hand-washing and stuff?  We'd have to make sure it's not boiling, but if we could make it work…"

He stares at you in the mirror for a moment, his face slack.  Then he cracks up laughing and leans on the sink, giggling into the basin.  "I don't know why I never thought of that."

You open the vinegar for him and drizzle it over the spill of glutinous white in the sink.  "Because you're a huge baby."

"Says the guy who's too scared to wash up in cold water.  You gonna cry about it?"

"I bet you still pee the bed."

He forces you to wash your hands for five minutes in the frigid tap water for that comment.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast with the 104th was [the first scene I envisioned for this fic](http://mitsumurata.tumblr.com/post/73391806880).
> 
> I've been waiting to write this for a long, long time.
> 
> More characters added, and for those who are caught up on the manga, there are some hints at foreshadowing in their scene that you'll enjoy. However, I feel these are not overt enough to be noticed by those who have not, and therefore, I am not going to flag for potential spoilers.
> 
> If you aren't caught up on the manga, though, I would avoid reading the comments section. I cannot guarantee the ability of other people to keep spoilers to themselves.
> 
> Another fanart from [zipra](http://leviebooks.co.vu/post/74342181592) for this chapter!

Though it succeeds in making you whine in discomfort, the cold water does nothing to douse your debauchery, and you chase him back into bed with groping fingers glued to his backside.

He waves your hands away as he crawls under the comforter, griping that he's not fifteen anymore and hasn't been for close to twenty years and he's completely done in for the night.

"But I'm not," you giggle, climbing on top of him and attempting to turn into deadweight and pin him down when he struggles.

Your attempt is unsuccessful, and he shoves your laughing form halfway across the mattress, sending half the cover with you in an Eren tortilla.  You're laughing too hard to resist as he unwraps you, pushes you onto your side, and snuggles up behind you, curling an arm around your waist.  You try to reach back for his ass, but he's pinned your arms in place, and he laughs when you whine at him.  You settle for rubbing your butt against his hips, and he tickles your armpits until your eyes water, refusing to believe your promises that you're done because you didn't mean it last time, did you.

You kick at his ankles.

He pets your chest in apology, and his chuckle on the back of your neck lulls you to sleep.

You dream of the fall of Shinganshina, but when you try to lift the eaves off your mother's broken body, she turns into Marco.

Hannes doesn't come to your aid this time, and when the Armored Titan appears in a clap of lightning, you stumble back and draw a blade before you realize it's bending down to help you.  When you rub the shock out of your eyes and look again, instead of a titan, the one upheaving your shattered roof is Reiner.

Levi arrives on a horse that speaks in Jean's voice.  As he dismounts, the horse becomes Jean and runs to the corpse trapped under your house.  He tries to take Marco into his arms, but the boy's body turns to ash at his touch, and he's screaming inconsolably, but his voice is strangely muted by the murmurs of Levi and Hanji, seemingly right in your ear.

An insistent weight moves the surface you lie on, shifting your balance upon it, and the ground has turned to water so saturated with salt as to make you completely buoyant.  Armin sails toward you on a one-man rowboat the size of a desk, crowing about the beauteous infinite oceans, but you still can't hear him over Levi and Hanji.

You wake to find the saltwater is your mattress, and Levi's voice in your ear is real.

"No, shut up, I'm telling you to get out of— oh now look what you've done, you've woken him."

Hanji's response is preceded by a gasp of intrigue.  "How can you tell?  Have you become that attuned to changes in his physiology?"

"He stopped snoring, you four-eyed shit-for-brains."

You attempt to ask what's going on, but your mouth is too gummed up from sleep, and all that comes out is a hoarse, vaguely inquisitive groan.  Hanji's laugh is nigh manic.  "Oh goodie, now he can tell me about these _fascinating_ marks on your neck!"

"I just told you, they're popped capillaries.  That's what a hickey is."  Levi sounds like a daycare supervisor trying to contain his irritation at the one kid who won't stop eating paste.  "For all your interest in this, you're pretty naïve, you know that?"

"That's why I'm so interested!" she whines, and you rub your eyes open.  She's perched on the bed beside you, swathed in a checkered green dressing gown that would better fit the commanding frame of someone like Bertholdt or Mike.  "His are fading so fast — and right as we watch, look, they're yellow already!  They were just brown a minute ago!"

You try to glance down at your own shoulder and realize your body can't bend that way.  Levi chuckles, still curled around your back and petting your chest in long, gentle strokes.  "There were a lot more last night."

" _Oh_ ," she sings, "just how friendly did you two get with my little presents?"

"I find your question paling in comparison to my own curiosity as to why you had them in the first place."

You seem to remember Levi only employing one gift from Hanji last night, and the captain's curiosity is contagious in spades.  At least he knows what was given to him.  You try to ask what they're talking about, but Hanji jumps down your throat the moment she acknowledges your state of consciousness.  "Eren, what exactly did you two do?  Did you explore any acts he hasn't done?  Any part of him you haven't touched yet?  How much experience have you had before?  Tell me about the sensations, how exactly did it—"

"Enough," Levi cuts in, as repulsed as if he's been asked to sift through garbage.  "Get out."

"Now Levi, don't you think you owe me a little for giving you the things I did?"

He doesn't seem near as willing to compromise as you'd been in his position.  "No.  As I recall, you owed me recompense for reading my private correspondences without permission."

"Awh come on, I've been trying to find out more about you for _years_ , I just want to know if—"

"I'm not your personal fucking experiment.  Keep pushing me, and the only information you're going to get about _my_ physiology is how _your_ teeth feel when my boot breaks them out, and unless you've been hiding something of serious consequence, they won't grow back.  Stop fucking trying to research me."

"But _Levi_ , I just—"

" _Leave_."

The captain's voice has changed from irritated to quietly enraged, and he sounds rather like he is one hard thought away from using your body as a weapon to maim the major.  Perhaps she detects this, because she rises from the bed and backs toward the door, her body bowed as if being tugged there by an unseen force.  "Eren, at least tell me if he's circumcised!"

You have no idea what this means, but judging by the tautening of Levi's arms around you, it sounds extremely personal.  "Why," you mutter, your tone surprisingly indignant for your pervasive state of general confusion.  "Are _you?"_

Her eyes roll so hard you feel sympathy pain in your own sockets.  "Yeah," she sighs, "unfortunately.  I'd _love_ an opportunity to experiment with foreskin, but everyone I know is cut, it's not like I haven't asked, and I've cursed my parents for it more than once, sorry to say, but it's just so frustra—"

Levi snaps "Hanji" through his teeth, and she groans a _fine_ that drags her the whole way out the door, even as she pulls it shut behind her.  You're tempted to laugh at her showmanship, but the tension in Levi's arms hasn't faded, and you do your best with the angles available to you to pet the fine hairs of his forearms into lying flat on his skin.  He sighs against your neck, nestling in closer, but his grip does slacken, his knee loosening atop your thigh.  His voice tickles your spine.  "How did you know she has a dick?"

Connecting a few dots, you guess "circumcised" must have to do with the penis, and you murmur, "Group showers."

He makes a sound of comprehension and squeezes you tighter for a moment.  "It's just barely eight," he murmurs as his body relaxes.  "She claimed she wanted to ensure we didn't miss the hot water again, but clearly, that was a whitewash to learn more about the state of our genitals."

You snort, and he untangles himself from around you, ignoring your groans of protest and your hands that reach after him and grab at the air in the direction of his ass.

Fortunately or unfortunately, he can't keep your hands off him forever, and as he adjusts the water dial and rearranges the soap bottles from yesterday's truncated shower, your fingers have become so attached to his butt cheeks you wonder if they've actually become ingrained.  When he tries to pull at your wrist, you slide your hands over his sides and trace the sharp creases of his hips, tugging him back under the water with you.

He glares over his shoulder, blinking the water out of his eyes.  "I finger you one time and you think that grants you unfettered access to my entire body."

"Somehow, I get the idea that I won't be allowed to touch you in front of anyone else," you giggle, following the lines down to where they would meet in the patch of hair between his legs.  He nods his confirmation, his eyes uncharacteristically wide.  "So I'm just doing what I can with the time I have."

He knocks your hands off him.  "You don't have time for that."

"Sure I do," you tease, tickling fingertips over his waist.  "We have a whole extra hour."

"Barely enough time to get you bathed properly, you ignorant caveman."  He pours beer-egg into your cupped hands and moves on to scrubbing his own body, as if that's the end of that discussion, but as he turns away, you lean in to whisper exactly what you think you have time to do to him.  He reaches back to swat you upside the head without a word.

"What?" you cry.  "You don't want me to do that?  You'll be clean, right!"

"Yes, but you haven't brushed your teeth."

You purse your lips over them, and the layer of grime that coats them feels obvious and disgusting once pointed out.  You wouldn't want that on your dick either.  "Oh."

"Yeah, _oh_.  Wash up."

"At least let me touch—"

"Wash.  Up."

He does not let you touch, even when you're both dry and with clean mouths, batting your hands away any time they attempt to enter his airspace.  It becomes a game as you both dress, trying to get the better of him and sneak a pinch of skin when he's occupied or off his guard.  You don't win, not so much as once, but he rewards your efforts by gripping your chest straps and pulling you in for a kiss that's far too chaste and quick for your mood.

Even his toothpaste tastes like tea.

His dedication is equal parts unnerving and adorable.

Maybe he feels he's being too harsh, because he does let you get away with copping a feel as you tighten his thigh straps.  He returns your grin with a soft ruffle of your hair, and when you go to stand, he shoves you hard in the chest so that you stumble and fall back onto the bed.  He wastes no time crawling over you, propping a cheek on his fist.

His hand traces idle lines over your chest, up your neck, and into your hair, where he twirls rosettes and combs them out.  Your arms wind around him, slipping under his jacket and outlining his spine and the muscles of his back, and when you nuzzle his propped-up arm, he leans down to press the soft fullness of his lips against yours.  The gentle stick of your mouths parting is a sound you cherish as it issues again and again, his kisses languid and lingering.  After what feels like a comparable time to your shower, your hand brushing his hair out of your face is what causes him to withdraw at last, and he bumps his nose into yours.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, and you give him a puzzled face.  "That we can't be like this in front of the others."

You'd suspected as much, but you're not sure why.  "Is this illegal or something?  Or is it just your preference to keep it secret?"  He raises an eyebrow, and you hastily tack on, "Which I'd totally respect, don't get me wrong, I'm just curious."

He chuckles at you, combing knots out of your hair that he's twisted into it.  "Fraternization between officers and their subordinates is heavily frowned upon.  Strictly speaking, I don't think there's any regulation against it, but we're swimming in a delicate enough quagmire of bullshit where your reputation and safety are concerned, and I'd much rather not risk cocking it up any further."  You nod in agreement.  "I guess it's inevitable that Hanji would figure it out, and Erwin's probably going to as well.  They know me too well.  But they'll keep quiet about it and run defense if necessary, so as long as we're discreet, we'll be fine."

You're perfectly fine with that, but you do have to wonder, "How are we gonna keep it discreet if I follow you to your room every night?"

He sighs, squinting at his hand as he plucks a stray eyelash from your cheek.  "We'll figure out the details."

Your nose wrinkles as you laugh, and he pokes the tip of it before standing and ushering you off the bed.

He keeps a hand on your arm as you move down the stairs, but the moment you arrive at the bottom and step into the hall on the main floor, his arms are at his sides and he's put a natural distance between you.

Before you reach the mess hall, he grips your elbow and stops dead, making you give a grunt of surprise and double back to avoid having your arm pulled out of its socket.  You're about to ask what's wrong, but the gleam in his eyes tells you the answer is nothing, and he's got a devious scheme cooking.

Your pre-constructed tone of worry turns to suspicion.  "What?"

"Your friends haven't met me yet, right?"

Apart from Armin and Mikasa, to whom you pointed out Levi at the start of the 56th expedition and who were at the tribunal, you're pretty sure no one else has come into contact with the captain.  That doesn't give you any love for his potential plan, though.  "Yeah?"

"What if… they don't know what I look like?"

His expression and mischievous tone click into a single suggestion in your mind, and suddenly the switch flips and you like this plan, oh shit you _really_ like this plan.  If you can keep a distance from the people who would give it away, it would be hilarious.  Your skeptical stare turns into an impish grin, and he shushes your giggles and shoos you toward the mess hall.  You hope neither of you looks conspicuous when you stride through the open doors, but it isn't all too occupied yet, so as you head into the kitchen to wash up around Hanji's squad, the biggest thing you're worried about is the petulant stare she keeps sending toward your back, which you and Levi both ignore.

By the time you emerge with your breakfast, the hall has filled considerably.  Armin and Mikasa are already seated — you guess they went by the service window while you were washing — but before he can stand and wave you over, you catch his eye.  Giving a nod toward Levi and a wink, you're pretty sure you get the message across, because he tips his chin up in comprehension and whispers something to Mikasa, and for a moment, your running thought trips on its trail at the look on her face.  She looks ready to murder someone in cold blood with the spoon she has clutched in a white-knuckled fist, and her unblinking stare is locked on the captain.

You have no idea why until you remember her words of yesterday evening, her promise to make him pay for his treatment of you at the tribunal, and a ball of nausea swirls in your stomach.

Suddenly, you're glad to have given Armin a signal to keep her away from you this morning.

Levi, either not noticing any of this or simply not acknowledging it, leads you to an empty table at the other side of the hall, and after you've peeled off your jackets and set up your plates, you take a moment to see who's already seated and who's still trying to find a spot.  Armin is seated at Erwin's table, and he's speaking to Mikasa with an expression and set of body language that are clearly meant to talk her down.  She isn't looking toward you anymore at least, but you're sure you'll have to resolve that issue at some point.  Until then, though, you intend to ignore that lump of guilt and have some fun.

And fun invites itself in the form of a tan-shirted body stepping up to the seat across from you, cutting off your view across the hall to Mikasa and Armin, and a plate dropping onto the table with enough unchecked vehemence that a glob of egg bounces off.  You can sense Levi's form recoiling minutely and resist the urge to giggle and elbow him in the waist.

"So," Jean huffs, pulling the chair out and plopping into it, not caring that he's kicked your ankle in the process.  "Your girlfriend's pissed."

He's developed an interesting habit of starting conversations with things that don't make immediate sense to you, and you blink your confusion at him.  "Girlfriend?"

Levi's slow turn to stare at you seems to have no effect on Jean.  "Yeah, y'know, the one you nearly killed the other week."  You try to break in and correct him that she's your sister, not your girlfriend, that's creepy and he's a freak for entertaining such incestuous fantasies, but you're pretty sure the only one who hears you is Levi, because he cracks up snorting into his plate as Jean attempts to talk over you.  "Hope you're happy.  She's not interested in talking to anybody and I _do mean anybody_ because she's so hell-fuckin'-bent on kicking the actual ass of this Captain Whatever."  That catches Levi's attention, and he picks the black pudding off his fork with a curious eyebrow raised.  You refuse to look anywhere but at Jean's horsey teeth as he talks with his mouth full.  "She hasn't said a single word in like a week except to talk about stabbing him in the face."

Levi snorts.  "Well, she's certainly tenacious, isn't she?"

Jean gives him a meaningful look.  "You have no idea."

"While I have to admire the dedication, such unrestrained bloodlust unwilling to conform to directives from higher-ups is indicative of a personality that has no place in the Corps."

"Kinda think she doesn't care about that," Jean says matter-of-factly, stirring his pudding into his eggs and mushrooms.  "S' pretty obvious she's only here to make sure Suicidal Bastard stays alive, no matter the orders, and everyone else can take care of their damned selves."

Levi smirks at you, and you roll your eyes at him.  "Suicidal Bastard being you?  Not surprising."

"Shut up."

A much larger hand seizes the chair across from Levi, and Reiner's voice rumbles, "So this is the Cool Kids table, huh?"

"This side is," Jean affirms, and Levi throws a grape at him.  He splutters in shock for a moment as Reiner laughs his way into the chair he's claimed, and he amends, "Well, at least that seat's not," with a fork jabbed at you.

You kick at his knees, and Levi uses your distraction to pilfer a grape from you to make up for the one he's wasted.  You decide against wiping ketchup on his face for the moment.

Reiner heaves a contented sigh as he relaxes into his seat and situates himself, and you're sure he's spread his knees out like he always does.  You wouldn't have noticed Bertholdt slinking into the seat on his other side if not for his size.  His color looks a lot better this morning, and you nod at him in greeting.

Levi has no trouble noticing him, and points at his overflowing plate.  "You gonna save some for the rest of us?"

Bertholdt's massive form recedes into his seat, seeming to buckle in on himself, and he cradles his hands around the plate as he burns dark red.  "I didn't mean— I can put—"

"Don't worry about it," Reiner assures him with a chuckle, patting him on the forearm.  Bertholdt stares at him, but doesn't relax, and Reiner adds, "He's just messing with you, dude, right?"

His tone, and the look he gives Levi, are honest rather than confrontational, and Levi nods.  "Of course.  You'd _know_ if I had a problem with it."

"And that's the gospel truth," you mutter to your eggs.  You ignore Levi digging a shoulder into your arm.  "The commander eats more than that, dude, you're fine."

"You wanna know who eats more than Bertl," a higher voice bursts in, and Connie clambers into the chair on Levi's other side, his food already mashed into a colorful pig slop and so drenched in ketchup that the captain actually scoots his chair toward you.  "Sasha does.  And that ain't even a question."

"Oh god, I know right," Jean gripes, shoveling his mixed mushrooms and greens into his mouth as he talks.  "Turn your back on the food for two fucking seconds and it's gone, I swear, cooked or not, she needs her own personal detail and like, to be chained to the floor at all times or something."

Reiner is laughing so hard into his mug of coffee that the contents are bubbling out onto his scrunched nose, and Connie gabbles, "You guys weren't even there at the wall were you though, she actually stole a ream of meat from the officers' quarters the morning Trost got attacked."  You'd forgotten about that, and you slap the table until you can swallow enough of your mouthful to concur, but he keeps prattling on before you have the time.  "She just shows up with it, right, like how did you even get that how are you still alive you're a crazy person, and she sneaks it into the bread box and I swear to you she was actually drooling—"

"She was asking who wanted to share," you cut in, "and you could just tell she wanted everyone to be like no, no honey I couldn't, you keep it."

"Yeah!" he squeals, and Reiner is tapping a fist into a bemused Bertholdt's side with laughter.  "Oh god, though, D.I. had such a problem with her."

Jean appends, "Her and you both," and Connie waves off this detail, packing his face with ketchupy mess.

"Dude no, though," he says through his mouthful, "I remember one time you and Eren were layin' into each other as normal, right, and Eren like threw you on the fucking floor—"

"I was off my game," Jean insists, and you laugh.

"No Kirschtein, I fucking annihilated you, I laid you _out_.  Don't even try to lie about that."

"First in hand-to-hand!" Reiner cries, reaching across the table to bump his knuckles into yours.  You can't be sure, but you think he winks at you, and you glance toward Levi for confirmation.  He seems too engrossed by the current goings-on to notice, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth, his face scrunched into a grey area between concern and amusement as his gaze darts around the table.

"Anyway," Connie pushes on through his food, "so your flat ass hitting the floor makes this loud-ass noise, right?  And D.I. just peeks in and we all like JUMP for our seats and he's like, _I heard a loud noise just now,_ " he says, affecting a deep gravelly tone in a crude impersonation of Shadis, " _anyone care to explain that?_   And Mikasa just goes SASHA FARTED."

Levi snorts, and Reiner shouts, "But the best part is, he _believed_ her!"

"Yeah he's like, _oh god you again!  Learn some self control!_   And we were all like DYING over it, like—"

"Please," Sasha interrupts from the head of the table, cutting off Connie's tirade and climbing hesitantly into the chair there, "tell me you're not sharing fart stories about me to people I haven't even met yet."

"Naw," Connie assures, "you didn't actually fart in this one."

"It was bad though, when she did," pipes in another voice from behind you, and Christa skips over to hop into the seat at the foot of the table, placing her neatly organized plate daintily in the space between yours and Jean's.  "She stunk us all out of the dorm more than once."

Ymir drags a chair over from another table without a word, and Connie scoots his own around the head of the table to share the cramped space with Sasha, making room for Levi to move into his space and for you to bump into the middle of the table, across from Reiner, so Ymir can sit closest to Christa.

As you all shift, Levi gives you an eloquent stare of bewilderment.  You shake your head and shrug hopelessly because this is just kind of the way things go with your friends.  After all, he was the one who wanted to see who'd recognize him in the first place, so he should've been prepared to see them in their natural state of mannerless spontaneity.

"Oh god, _really_ ," Sasha is whining, and true to your unanimous professions, her plate is piled high enough to make Bertholdt's look empty.  Connie rubs circles over her back with a grin.  "We've just left all that juvenile nonsense behind and you're already pushing that reputation on me, can't we let that go?"

"Not a chance, Potato Girl," Jean calls across the table, and she groans, planting her face in her folded arms on the table.  You don't miss that she uses the opportunity to steal a handful of Connie's grapes.

Levi addresses the entire table.  "Who's the D.I.?"

The answer arises in toneless unison, as if mentioning the name of a chore rather left forgotten.  "Keith Shadis."

Levi just about chokes on his mouthful as he bursts out laughing into his fist, the high bubbling sound you love so much intercut with the hacking of trying not to let egg go down the wrong pipe.  You pat his back to help with the coughing until he calms himself enough to say, "Miracle you guys are still alive."

"You're telling me," Sasha mutters at the same time Christa chirps, "He's not so bad!"

Levi gives her an eloquent stare over his tin teacup.  "Of course he's bad, he was the commander when I signed on.  Miracle _I'm_ still alive, come to it."

You giggle and trace fingertips around the top of the thoracic padding of his harness, tickling the muscles where they meet at his spine.

Reiner nods at him, stuffing his mouthful into one cheek.  "How long you been in?"

"Six years," Levi says, his tone flat with the blandness of boring truth, and you try to control your face so as to not betray your surprise.  You could've sworn he'd been at your house before you were nine?  Perhaps your memory is fuzzier than you'd thought.

"Oh man," Jean crows, "no wonder he was so harsh, must've just come out of command and gone straight into instruction."

"Explains why he gave you such a hard time," Ymir mutters, staring right at you with a telling smirk.

You're not sure why it would relate to you in particular, and judging by their faces, no one else seems to know either.  "Huh?"

"The Corps always goes out through the south, right?  Must've come back through Shinganshina a lot.  Your daddy's the doctor."  She sucks her spoon clean and stirs her tea.  "Must've known exactly who you were when you waltzed on in."

"Oh man," Reiner laughs, "and he gave Eren a _hell_ of a time.  Second day, right, we're testing out our 3D aptitude—"

"Shut up," you cut in to the laughter of nearly everyone at the table, "not this story, okay, shut up—"

Reiner plows on despite your complaints.  "And most of us can get it pretty good without a lot of trouble, like some of us are swingin' around but for the most part we've got it, and then this asshole," he cries, pointing his fork at you as Jean laughs obnoxiously.  "This asshole is like upside-fuckin'-down, and D.I. comes up and goes— oh man I can't, you do it, Bertl, you do it best."

Bertholdt has barely made so much as a breath the entire time, sucking down his food like it's the last meal he'll ever see, and Levi watches him with interest as he slowly turns a brilliant shade of pink.  He brushes his hair out of his eyes, pushes his mushrooms into a tidy pile, and looks to you as he takes a preparatory breath.  You've got half your face covered in shame, but you're sure your expression shows amusement nonetheless, and he giggles a bit before he booms, "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, EREN JÄGER?"

Jean jumps, and Bertholdt's impression is so uncanny it causes Sasha and Connie to curl up in their chairs as if pulled by strings, shrieking with laughter, and Reiner doubles over to beat a fist into the table, making everyone's silverware clatter with each impact.  Christa giggles into her napkin.

Levi beholds him with his mouth open in an impressed stare that gives way in chuckles.  "Okay, I haven't seen the guy in like five years, and that was _good_.  That just gave me flashbacks."  Bertholdt attempts to respond, but his reply is caught in his throat and his mouth flaps open and shut as his face turns darker, a bead of sweat trickling from under his hair and down the path of his sideburn.  Levi's head tilts a bit in amusement.  "There's really no need to perspire."

"That's just what he does," Reiner says, blotting the sweat with his napkin.  Levi watches him put it on the table, and he promptly pulls his elbows off it, cradling them in his lap.  You rub the back of his neck.  Reiner laughs and pinches Bertholdt's cheek, calling him a sweaty baby, and Bertholdt mumbles something in protest and shrugs him away.

Levi leans into your touch, his shoulder pressed to yours at the cramped table.  "Well, that's adorable."  Reiner laughs harder, and you think you feel a toe rubbing your ankle, and you're pretty sure it's not Levi's.  You're not sure if you should move, just in case.  He turns a coy smile to you, and you're sort of dreading whatever he has to say.  "So you got yelled at by Keith, huh."

"Shut up," you mutter, going back to your eggs.

"How come you didn't tell me that?"

You're not sure if he's serious.  "Didn't come up."

"Didn't come up?"  Connie is laughing at Levi's playful tone, and he leans his head on Sasha's shoulder as he chews.  Levi seems to be much more adept at tuning out their weirdness than you'd anticipated.  "How dare you deny me such titanium ammunition for mockery."

Sasha lets out a shout of laughter.  "Titan-ium.  Get it?"  Jean mutters to shut up, and she says, "It's funny because he's a titan."  Ymir yells _booo_ and throws a mushroom at her.

Levi ignores them all.  "Really, what the fuck were you thinking?  What the fuck are you _doing_ , Eren Jäger?"  Reiner shouts with laughter, echoing the D.I.'s quote, and it rises from everyone at the table in disjointed cries like the howling of a pack of wolves.  Levi glances around at them.  "Is that a thing now?  Are we making it a thing?"

"It's a thing," Connie agrees, and Levi nods his approval.  You knock your head into his, and he steals a leaf of spinach from you.

"Okay," Ymir says, her voice garbled through the force of her stretch as she pops her back between the shoulders.  "Cute as this is, we have actual pressing matters at hand."  You do?  No one else at the table seems to think so, exchanging puzzled faces.  "I didn't wanna have to be the one to ask this, but I can see none of these godless heathens are going to, so.  Eren."  You nod at her.  "Where the hell does a girl get a shower around here?"

"Oh," Sasha mumbles through her mouthful of Bertholdt's bread, "good question."

"Uh," you reply, staring toward the door and attempting to draw directions to the shower with your finger in the air.  Levi is the one to respond, giving concise directions to the bath, and Bertholdt's eyes roll toward the ceiling as he tries to commit the captain's words to memory.  You have a feeling he's the only one who will remember later.  You add, "But they're communal showers, no stalls or anything and all co-ed, so.  Yeah.  You guys have to behave."

Connie cuts in, reaching across a startled Levi to grab the wrist of your sleeve.  His expression is stern, but he's staring unseeingly at the tabletop, not at you.  "You mean to tell me… we all shower together."

"Hot water's on from eight to nine in the morning," you affirm, picking out some of Levi's eggs as he contends with Connie's intrusive arm, eventually getting the kid to withdraw it back into his own space.

Sasha's eyes have gone as huge as her plate, and Connie whips his head around to stare at her so quickly you think you actually hear his neck pop.  "Do you know what that means."

A devilish smile is beginning to spread over Sasha's features.  "I believe I do."

"What," Jean sighs, "what's it mean."

"Dude," Connie says, as if this should be obvious.  He makes cupping motions in front of his chest and declares, " _Boobs._ "

"Come on," you mutter, "the showers are group and co-ed because we're all _adults_ here and we're trusted to be _mature_ and _respectful_ toward our peers."

Connie shrugs ruefully.  "Okay… but… boobs."

Sasha concedes, "Boobs."

Christa sets her fork on the table with enough force to surprise you.  "Guys.  Not just boobs."

Reiner chimes in, "Yeah, ass too," and the toe brushing your ankle slides up toward your knee.  Realization dawns on you, and you meet his eyes in time to see his eyebrows waggle.  You have no idea what to make of this or if you're even reading his tells correctly, but your hand tightens on the back of Levi's shirt nonetheless.

Christa murmurs, "No," her tone impatient.  " _Ranking officer boobs_."

Everyone turns to stare at her, even Levi squinting critically as if he hasn't registered her presence until just this moment and isn't sure whether to be amused or proud, and Ymir pats her on the back gleefully.  "That's my girl!"

Christa's eyes have gone wide as a mouse.  She directs the full weight of her gaze upon you, and it's surprisingly unsettling.  "That one girl in the group you were with last night, Eren.  The one with the pretty hair."  There's only one girl in your squad, so you know immediately who she's talking about, but her compliment of Petra's hair only confirms it — she's one of the few people in the Corps whose hair is so shiny you could use it as a mirror, and you've never seen its color's likeness before.  Christa fans herself and mouths the word _hot_.  Levi snorts into your shoulder as she whispers, "What time does she shower?"

Reiner's foot tickles your kneecap, turning your attention to him instead so he can ask, "What time do _you_ shower?"

In an instant, you blush hot enough to match Bertholdt, who looks decidedly disgruntled at this question.  Sasha and Jean are laughing too hard for you to answer more than a stuttering _uh_ , and Levi leans his full weight on you, making your hand slide around his neck to rest on his shoulder, and you dig fingers under the padding of his harness, assertively tracing his collarbone and rubbing spots where you're pretty sure hickeys hide beneath his shirt.

He chuckles at the tint of your face.  "You're about as red as you were the first time I met you."

"No," you bark, "no, we're not telling that story."  He laughs, gently bumping his elbow into your side, and you keep shaking your head.  "Nope.  I'm not budging on this one, you try to tell that story and I'll choke you with your bread."  You go to steal it as a preemptive measure and find that he doesn't have it, and to boot, your own is also missing.  "Where is your bread."

Sasha makes a guilty noise that sort of sounds like a laugh.

Levi stares at her, his slender eyebrows pinched and his mouth hanging slightly open, and she curls in on herself, burying her face behind Connie's ketchup-stained shoulder.  You can't blame her hiding; though none of them have yet announced that they know who he is, the captain radiates a dangerous aura, and he almost looks the same way he did after Auruo spilled tea on his cravat.  The absurdity of the entire situation weighs in too much, though, and the entertainment gets the better of him.  "I want to be angry," he muses at last, "but I'm too impressed."  She giggles apprehensively.  "Next time you attempt to take food that isn't yours I will literally peel your skin off your living body, but this time, I'm just impressed."

She turns a color eerily reminiscent of Levi's shirt, and Connie laughs so hard tears stream down his face.  You can barely hear her whisper "Understood."

"You can try," Reiner says, "but telling Sasha to stop eating is like telling Jean to stop having a crush on Mikasa."

The others all snort into their plates or burst out laughing, even Bertholdt making a choking noise of amusement, but this information feels quite a lot like Levi's elbow ramming your temple.  Your mind has gone blank and you feel sort of weightless, and you blink at Jean in genuine astonishment.

He ignores you, rounding on Reiner, and gives a loud false laugh that makes everyone laugh harder.  Levi rests his head on your shoulder again, and you reach up to stroke the velvet of his shaved head even though you shouldn't.  He doesn't stop you.  Jean looks as though he might cry, his voice far too emphatic for comfort, and declares, "That's hilarious!  That is so funny, _wow_ that is just.  That is too funny.  Phew!"  He blots at his eyes as if wiping away tears of mirth.  "And so true, too!  A real, true comparison there.  Utterly deserving of note and repute," he insists, and the more he talks, the more your friends laugh.  Christa's face is planted in Ymir's chest, and you think Connie might actually be crying from the pain of laughing so hard.  "I don't know how I could possibly present a worthy rejoinder— oh!  Wait!  I think I actually have something.  Let me just check here in my pocket of fun facts!"  He digs in his pocket, and he says, "Oh!  Yes, here, I've got it!"  He mimes pulling out a piece of paper and unfolding it.  "Did you know — oh wow, this is really a good one, damn — did you know, that if you take just one small, prickly cactus, you can SHOVE IT UP YOUR ASS."

Reiner is clutching his stomach, his face scrunched up with laughter, and has completely given up on taking Jean seriously, but it's Levi who stuns the table into silence as he bursts out laughing, practically falling on you in the process.  His hands scrabble with your shirt, your fingers, the edge of the table, and eventually cling to his own chest straps as he flops back in his chair and cackles to the ceiling.  You rub his back, giggling at his performance, and he slaps at your thigh, overtaken by amusement.

" _Fuck_ ," he exclaims when he has the breath to do so, and by the time he calms himself, everyone else is laughing at his conduct.  You offer him your untouched napkin to clear his watering eyes.  He sighs away the last edge of the laughter as he does.  "Oh my god.  I have to remember that."  He nods toward Jean.  "Keep that up and I just might have to keep you around."

"No," you cut in, and he giggles at you.  "Please, no.  I'll refill your tea if you promise you won't put him on your squad."

He raises an eyebrow as his complexion fades from the pink of laughter.  "I can make no such promises."

"Then you're not getting any more tea.  You're done.  Forever.  Life sentence.  No parole."

He purses his lips thoughtfully.  "What if I _say_ I'll promise, but I'm just saying it, and it's not a binding agreement.  Is that an acceptable plea bargain?  Would it help you sleep easier?"

You give him a long, skeptical look, and he grins at you.  "Fine," you sigh, "but you have to say it like you mean it."

He stares at Jean and says in an uncompromising monotone, "You're never going on my squad.  Never _ever_."  Jean makes a snide face and attempts to cut in, and Levi asserts, "Never."

"Thank you," you sing, and you snatch up his teacup and head for the kitchen, leaving Connie coughing with laughter.

Your timing is apt, it seems, because the moment you rise from your seat, Armin pops out of his and scampers to join you at the kitchen door.  He holds it open and follows a step behind you, keeping his voice low.  "Looks like you and Captain Levi are getting along, then?"

"Oh yeah, we've been fine the whole time," you assure him, matching his hushed volume.  You're not sure why he's being so quiet, but you've learned better than to contradict the mood he sets.  It's clear to you, though, that he's getting straight to the point rather than trusting you to pick up on coded language, so you murmur, "The shit at the tribunal was just an act, y'know?"

"Oh I know," he says as you rinse Levi's teacup, "but Mikasa doesn't trust it.  She says he went way too far and if he really cared about you he couldn't have been that violent with you."

Her distrust punches holes in your heart like burrs sticking to your jeans, stubborn and clingy and annoying.  "He had to make a scene, dude.  He had to push past a limit to prove I can get hurt that much and he can still keep me under—"

"No I know, Eren, I know," he says, watching you empty the used leaves from his infuser.  "You don't have to tell me this, I know.  But she's… really angry."

"Well, what do you want me to do?" you gripe, moving past him to the cupboard where the teas are stored.  Armin shrugs, and you pull out a tin, sniffing at it and discerning the contents to be incorrect.  The next one is right — you barely remove the lid before you're met with the familiar rich malty aroma — and you pinch out enough to half-fill the infuser before replacing the tin.  Armin has yet to offer a solution, and you feel a little flame of anger flare up in his direction.  "What do you want me to do."

"Let her see you two together," he says, tripping after you as you refill his cup with simmering water and drop the infuser in it.  "She's been occupied with Lieutenant Mike trading techniques this morning, but I've been talking with Commander Erwin, and he's told me you guys are inseparable and that Captain Levi is uncommonly animated around you, and he's even seen him touch you once or twice.  If she sees how different he is in person than he was back then, she'll be more inclined to believe it was just an act."

You're not so sure he does act differently around you in the public eye; it's only when you're alone that he emotes and laughs and gets touchy-feely.  Petra and Hanji and others have reported that Levi is normally irritable and unapproachable, and you find that to be pretty true — he gives off some incredible "don't even look at me" vibes.  You've always thought you're just sufficiently daring, and have become attuned enough to him, to approach him anyway.  Somehow, though, you get the idea from the stories your squad shared during cleaning that he's usually a bit worse than what you've seen, unnerving enough that even you would back off, the way you generally steer clear of Erwin.

You think back to all the times he's brushed off someone else to put you in his presence, and though you would still argue that he's very abrupt and curt when you have company, you can't really contest that he does act kind of different.

You shrug, pulling the floating infuser out of the teacup, and clean it out for him.  "I know her though, dude, and she'll say the way he's behaving _now_ is the act and what she saw back then was his real personality."

"I don't think she will," Armin hums.  "She wants to trust you and believe in you, and if you say something is true and present her with the evidence, she'll go with it."

"No she doesn't," you mutter, hanging the infuser in its place.  "Did you see her face when I managed to use the gear properly at first?  She didn't want me to succeed."

"Because she doesn't want to think you're in trouble," Armin explains, and he's trying to sound helpful, but he just sounds tired.  "Which is more reason why, if you show her Levi's not dangerous, she'll believe you.  She'll never completely believe it, yeah, but that's because she's realistic and she never completely believes anything except that you're a suicidal idiot.  Which, let's face it, you kind of are."

He says it with a smile, and you have to chuckle back.  "Sure," you assent, figuring it can't get much worse and you'd better deal with it sooner than later, "whatever.  Call her over."

Armin opens the door for you and your steaming teacup, and your stomach drops to see everyone at your table leaning toward Levi in fascination as he speaks, his affect deadpan and his expression smug.  You can tell without hearing a word exactly what he's saying.

"Oh shit," you breathe, and Armin whirls around, caught by your tone.  "He's telling the fucking story."

Armin's voice floats after you, inquiring "story?", but you dart toward the table as best as you can without sloshing any of the tea and set the cup in front of him just in time to hear him say, "He comes out with this glass of water that makes his hands look all of about two inches round."

Sasha coos, Jean sneers at you, and Reiner stands up to pinch your cheek as he did to Bertholdt earlier.  You turn a stare down at the captain, your eyes wide and dangerous, and you murmur, "Levi, I swear to god—"

He ignores you.  "He looks me dead in the face, and drops the fuckin' glass straight on the ground and bolts."

"Fuck you," you whine, slumping into your chair and nuzzling your nose against his hair in complaint.

He reaches up to pet your head at an awkward angle, his shoulder shaking with silent chuckles as the rest of your table alternately bursts out laughing at you and gives cries of secondhand embarrassment.  In your periphery, an approaching Armin gasps, "Oh darn it, I missed it!  I love that story!"

"Oh?" Levi says.  "Then I'll have to tell it again.  Anyone want to hear it again?"

"No," you object as the rest of your friends cheer with encouragement.  "Fuck you in the butt with a rusty pipe, you're not even supposed to remember that."

"That's no way to speak to your commanding officer."

"I don't care you're a meanie."

A few of your friends are still giggling, but one by one, they're going quiet and exchanging perplexed glances.  Only Jean has gone completely silent, staring at you with an utterly flat face, clearly too gobsmacked and exasperated to be capable of a grandiose response in the light of his realization.

His voice is as bland as his expression.  "You're fucking kidding me."

Slowly, you raise your head from Levi's, and you can't help the grin that washes over your features as your friends figure out who it is they've been keeping company as they've idly sat here swearing and throwing food and clambering all over each other and telling fart jokes.

"You know," Reiner says, his eyes drawn into slits as he waggles a finger at the two of you, "I was starting to get the impression he was important, and it's the squad thing that sold it, but somehow, I was not smart enough to piece it together."  He claps slowly, drawing out the action, and nods in solemn approval as Bertholdt sinks into his chair and attempts to become one with the floor.  "Well done, both of you, damn.  I have a newfound respect for you, Eren.  And Captain, holy shit."  Levi gives a quiet smile of pride, his fingers still kneading your scalp.  If he were a cat, he would be purring.  "You are _cool_ , dude.  Like _seriously_ cool.  And smooth as hell, too, can I just—"

He stands, moving to shake Levi's hand, and without batting an eye, Levi says, "Don't touch me."

"Got it," he accedes, withdrawing instantly.

Christa's mouth is covered and she's blushing, but you think she's smiling behind her hands.  Ymir looks as if she couldn't care less; Sasha seems ready to die.  Connie leans into her and hisses, "What just happened?"

Her voice is equally muted, as if you really couldn't hear them from sitting right beside them, as she whispers, "That's Captain Levi."

"Yes," a voice says from behind Armin, the softness of it persevering even through her blatant cold rage.  "That's Captain Levi."

Armin sidesteps to allow her a better view of the table, and more accurately, a view of you leaning on the captain with his arm around you.  Jean catches sight of the expression you refuse to acknowledge on Mikasa's face, and he murmurs, "Ohh…"

As your friends each register her presence in turn and remember how she's spoken of Levi since the tribunal, they each let out a similar sound of recognition and dread.  Levi sighs, "I'm going to pretend I don't know why you're making those noises," and you lean your head into him again.  He pats the back of your neck.  "We've gotta get moving though.  You have transformation practice."

That makes you stand up completely.  "Again?"

"What do you mean, _again?"_ he says, squinting at you.  "You did it once and you produced half an arm.  Don't be a fucking crybaby."

"You mean like you were this morning?" you tease, eager to impress upon your friends and Mikasa how close the two of you are.  You adopt a nasally whine that sounds nothing like Levi.  "Nooo, Erennn, you barely have time to showerrr—"

"I'm going to shove my entire dick in your mouth," he informs you, and you hold your arms out in a helpless gesture.

"I offered!"

He swats at you, and you swat back until his fingers hook on an abdominal strap and snap it against your stomach.  As you howl in laughter and a little bit of pain, he grumbles, "Go check in with the major."

You steal a gulp of his tea and grin as you replace the mug on the table, praying your eyes don't water and give away how badly you just scalded the inside of your mouth.  He keeps squinting at you, but you're so acquainted with his face that you can see the amusement in his eyes.  You giggle, "Yes sir," and squeeze his shoulder before departing for the table Armin and Mikasa have vacated, hoping you're not making a huge mistake in leaving them alone with Levi.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There has been a huge debate about Hanji's gender lately, and I'd like to explain a thing.
> 
> The spark of the debate is that _Isayama has not said that Hanji is nonbinary; what he has said is that Hanji's gender is not canonically established._ Both he and Kodansha are operating with a policy that the reader decides Hanji's gender for themselves, and that every and any gender interpretation is valid.
> 
> I'm carrying that policy over into my own work, and applying it to the characters instead of the readers. _Hanji is intersex and polygender in the Sentiment-verse,_ and is comfortable with _any_ pronouns, so each character chooses the pronouns they feel suit Hanji best, and Hanji is comfortable with all of them. Levi addresses Hanji with she/her pronouns, so those are the pronouns Eren adopted by association.
> 
> Thanks for understanding, and enjoy! This chapter was especially hard to write, so I hope it's effective.

You have made a huge and terrible mistake leaving anyone alone with Levi.

Checking in with Hanji takes you more time than it should because she wants to know why everyone is laughing, what Levi has to say about you that none of your friends know, why were you two all over each other, are you "out now," are you playing a prank, and after five minutes of increasingly anxious glances over your shoulder toward the table whose atmosphere has grown increasingly tense, you ask her a bit more curtly than you really should to "just be prepared to start in an hour, okay?" and return to your friends.

Reiner is in the middle of asking something that involves an incredibly saucy facial expression.  Levi does not seem amused.

He aims a frustrated stare toward you.  "Please inform your sister that my threat to orally fuck you is not a genuine offer of sexual advances."

Mikasa stands at the head of the table with her arms crossed, having pushed Sasha and Connie's chairs out of her way seemingly by the sheer force of her anger.  But you don't make eye contact with her first.  It's Armin, hugging his arms to his waist and tucking his hair behind his ear, who catches your eye, and you give him a face that ought to tell him everything you think about the situation.

_This is not going according to your plan, is it._

He makes a face that is both apologetic and hopeful, and gives a small shrug.

_Just try?_

You roll your eyes and direct your response toward Mikasa, although she refuses to look away from the captain.  "Mikasa, we talk like that all the time.  We all do.  Graphic sexual threats are kind of a thing among comfortable friends.  Have you not heard Jean threaten to bend Connie over a table when he belches too loud?"

Connie's eyes go huge.  "That's a sexual threat?"

Ymir mutters "oh my god" and rubs both palms into her face, and Reiner says, "Let's just say I've been bent over a few tables and there was nothing nonsexual about it."  Bertholdt lets out a squeaking noise you'd believe more fitting of Christa, but she releases a roll of laughter deep enough that your gaze is distracted to her and you forget what you were trying to talk about.

Thankfully, Armin doesn't.  "Yeah, Mikasa, we all do it.  It's a pretty common thing."

"Common among peers, certainly," she says, her voice smoother than Levi's skin.  "But not between superiors and subordinates."

"Oh, come off it," Ymir huffs.  "If he's close to his commanding officer, that's good, right?  As long as he still follows orders, who gives a shit."

"I give a shit," Mikasa replies, and her tone has dropped to a dangerous volume.  "There is a certain undeniable level of authority and respect that needs to be maintain—"

Hanji's arm flinging around your shoulder interrupts Mikasa's thought, and her shrill voice in your ear brings the exchange to a firm halt.  "So, Eren!  Gonna give me a nice big titan to experiment on today, or you gonna shit the bed again?"

"Shit the bed and you're washing the sheets," Levi mutters over the top of his mug before taking a long swig.

Glancing at Mikasa's hardened expression, you decide the "level of authority and respect" has been soundly deflated, and you may as well drive the point home.  You just hope neither Levi nor Hanji reacts the wrong way.  You turn a smirk toward the major and say, "I'll show _you_ a nice big titan."

She bursts out laughing so hard she coughs, leaning on your shoulder for support, and you prod tickling fingers at her waist.  When she's caught her breath, she slaps at your shoulder repeatedly and calls you a sassy little asshole, and she ruffles your hair before she scampers from the mess hall.

You direct a look toward Mikasa.  "See?"

She doesn't seem convinced in the slightest, so you turn your gaze to Levi for backup.  He's staring at you with a look that says he's resigned himself to be okay with what just happened, but you can still expect to catch some flak about it later.

A cold sweat pricks at the back of your neck.  You're not sure you are prepared for his reaction.

He quietly excuses himself, and you're sorely tempted to tag along, but you know you should focus on preparing your test station outside.  You elect to wait for Hanji to return, and to wonder if he detects your gaze following his back as he leaves.  Reiner's elbow bumps into your hip, snapping you out of your daze, and heat rises to your face as you realize you're thinking and acting like a bad actor in a melodrama.  You tune into his words in time to recognize "you and the captain getting pretty cozy, eh?"

"Oh," you say, aware of how distracted you sound and instantly correcting yourself with a proper amount of enthusiasm.  "Oh, no!  No, all part of the act.  Just messing with you guys.  And _boy_ did you fall for it!"

Christa pipes up from the end of the table as she moves to collect everyone's empty plates.  "Still, you must be quite close for him to agree to such a prank."

You're aware of Mikasa's eyes on you, and equally aware that her temper hasn't faded since being abruptly interrupted by Hanji.  You make a point of meeting her glare as you respond.  "Yeah, we're friends.  The prank was his idea, actually.  He's a fun guy, he's just a little…"  You pull a face while searching for a description that both describes him accurately and wouldn't hurt his feelings if he were to hear it.  "He's a little closed-off."

Mikasa's voice is little more than a growl.  "You could've just left it at 'he's little.'"

The others make noises of uncomfortable, forced amusement, as if they want to find her barbs funny but they also don't want Levi to swoop down from the rafters and kill them.  The jab might've been innocuous coming from one of your squad mates, or from Hanji or Erwin, but it's coming from someone who doesn't know him, has decided she hates him and won't be persuaded otherwise, and has no idea why his stature is as it is, and the circumstance makes her comment unacceptable.  A flame of anger flares in you, and suddenly, you don't care about doing things delicately.

"So he's not allowed to have a casual friendship with me because we need to maintain respect and authority, but you're allowed to make cracks about his height?"

Your friends' reactionary sounds are much more genuine this time, indicating one of you has upset the other in a way that's about to get hilarious.  You're not sure which one of you they're rooting for, though, but you kind of don't care.

She opens her mouth to retort, and you know before she can even form a word that it's going to be about his actions at the tribunal, and you cut her off.  "No, y'know what, I don't care what your problem is with him, I don't care why you feel so threatened by him."  You're not sure that's an accurate assessment, but the way she bristles in response makes you believe you've hit a nerve and must be onto something.  Doesn't matter, because as you've just said, you don't care.  "You're gonna stand there talking about authority and respect?  Then you'd better have some for him yourself, because your dislike of him does not negate the fact that he is in fucking charge, and if you expect me to honor that fact, you'd better damn well do it too.  My informal behavior with him is the result of closeness.  Yours is the result of insubordination.  One of us has the right idea here, and hint: it's not you."

She gawks at you, her mouth still hanging from her unformed reply, and the strained silence from your friends forms an uncomfortable chasm between you, with Armin on the other side clearly wishing to vanish where he stands.

After you've begun to feel that if the pause gets any heavier it will start to damage the table, she draws a quiet breath and says, "You're right.  I need to mind myself."

Armin's form visibly slumps with relief.

"But," she adds, "if he lays a hand on you again—"

"He won't," you insist, your tone still hard.  Her acquiescence does not mean your temper has instantaneously dropped, and you want to be sorry for that, but it's easier to be angry.  She has no right to insist upon holding a grudge on him in the first place, and she's damn right to be the one to back down.  You don't want to see the looks your friends are giving you.  "I have my assignments.  You guys have yours.  I'll see you at lunch."

You leave without another word or another glance, your blood thundering.

Hanji is rushing past the mess hall with Moblit in tow and equipment in hand as you pass through the doors, and you nearly run into them in your reckless haste.  You decide this is a fortunate turn of events and follow them to the practice field on horseback, where you help them set up containment measures and begin to prepare yourself for practice.

Eventually, you'll be expected to transform with all your gear, but for now, you're just supposed to focus on keeping your form intact.  You strip your gear off and leave them at the edge of the containment perimeter, and after a moment's consideration, you leave your jacket with it.  Levi did ask you to refrain from getting it dirty.

Hanji attempts to give you a rushed low-down of your expected tasks, but is sidetracked by a cluster of approaching hoofbeats, and Moblit takes over explaining with a sigh as she goes to investigate.  He tells you that, since your transformations seem to be triggered by a clear goal, your goal this time is simply "get out of the well."  You nod your comprehension.  It should work, and if it doesn't… then you're back to square one, you suppose, and the next step will be left to Erwin's judgment.

Hanji returns with your breakfast companions, as well as Mikasa and Armin, the last of whom explains that since they've worked with you in the past, they were assigned to help monitor and assist with your practice exercises.  It makes your stomach roll.  Performing for Levi is enough pressure; with your friends watching, you're not sure if you'll be able to focus at all, especially with the dark cloud of irritation still hanging almost tangibly over Mikasa.  A quick glance at Jean shows he isn't too pleased with you either, and while normally you'd find this hilarious, at the moment it just makes your stomach flip faster.

Hanji unfurls the rope ladder and has Reiner hold it while you climb down into the well.  The instant your feet hit the ground, she rolls it back up and disappears from sight.

All that's left is the signal flare indicating Levi has arrived, and you're safe to start.

It feels like hours, standing there with your gut spinning and head pounding as you pick at the grime under your nails — when had that gotten there?  You're beginning to see the point of Levi's constant washing — but in reality, you are probably waiting less than ten minutes before you hear the shot of the flare, and your gaze snaps up to see a trail of green smoke arcing into the sky.

Your heart flutters.  Levi's up there.

You desperately want to impress him, to maintain your closeness to him, and you're aware that he couldn't possibly be watching you now with total impartiality after last night.  But you're not sure whether you'd elicit a better reaction with a transformation, proving your usefulness, or without one, proving your humanity.

A nagging voice in the back of your head reminds you that you haven't forgotten he will still have to kill you if you lose control.

You can't force him to do that.  Whether you transform or not, you have to maintain control of yourself.

You're still not sure whether you actually want to transform in the first place.

He's waiting, though.  They all are, and you're not oblivious to the knowledge that you can't just stand here and do nothing.  The decision to transform isn't up to you.  If you can't, you can't, but you have to make an attempt.

Get out of the well.

The thought resonates in your mind, echoing and bouncing and creating ripples that drive all other thought away.

You bring your hand between your teeth.

 

 

 

 

the ground is close

 

it grows but the ground does not go away the ground is too close it cannot move its legs

 

the ground is eating it

 

it is trapped

 

it thrashes it screams it cannot move its legs it needs to get out it needs to kill the big ones

 

there are no big ones

 

there are small ones but there are no big ones the small ones are moving they are ants they have their shiny sticks they are screaming

 

the yellow one yells at it the yellow one yelled at it before the yellow one calls it a name

 

it has no name

 

it reaches for the yellow one what is the yellow one but it cannot reach it is trapped the ground is eating it the yellow one is yelling the black one is there the black one calls it a name the black one is yelling

 

it yells

 

the small ones run they move the yellow one away the black one will not move the small ones scream they are screaming at it they have their shiny sticks they are angry

 

the strong one is not angry

 

the strong one is not screaming the strong one does not have shiny sticks the strong one is still

 

the strong one is watching it

 

the strong one is close the strong one is always close

 

the strong one was close before

 

it knows the strong one

 

the strong one says nothing but it is okay when the strong one says nothing the strong one saves it with shiny sticks when the big ones are too big the strong one saves it when the small ones are too angry and they have their shiny sticks

 

the strong one kicks

 

the strong one kicks to save it

 

the strong one teaches it to fight the strong one teaches it to learn the strong one makes it stronger the strong one smells like free and feels like home the strong one is good

 

the strong one is good

 

…Levi.

The name rings in your mind like the sudden chime of a bell.

Levi.

He sits on horseback, his hands carefully folded around the reins, watching you with a cautious scrutiny.

Jean and Connie still try to force Mikasa's horse back, but she twists and turns him in place and can't be moved.  Behind Reiner, Armin still shouts for you.

One of them screams to know if you're okay, if you can hear them, but you can't tell which.  They're all yelling, they think you've gone berserker mode again, and their voices all blend together in your sensitive ears.

You try to open your mouth and form words, _I hear you, I'm okay, I'm me again_ , but all that comes out is a gurgling roar.

By their reactions, you surmise this attempt at communication is unsuccessful.

You turn your gaze to Levi.

The titan's vision is different than your own, and while color is roughly the same, humans have a grey blurriness to them that titans do not.  Titans are much more vivid, highly detailed and emitting a vibrance and a heat that humans lack, something that moves the air and draws your attention like a copper filing to a magnet.  If you didn't pause to look at them deliberately, your eyes would scan right over humans without realizing they were even there.  You make your eyes stick on Levi, take in the sight of his changing facial expression as he recognizes the sapience that has come over you.  Above the screaming of your friends, Levi's voice reaches you.

"Come out, then."

You're not sure if he's referring to removing your body from the well, or withdrawing from the titan, but the well has successfully contained you despite your earlier thrashing and you don't think there is a way to remove your legs from it.  You remember that the longer you stay in this thing, the more likely you are to start fusing with it, and you elect that getting out of the titan is probably the best option.

You try to regain sentience in your own body, shifting your input from the titan's eyes to your own.  You're not sure exactly how you detach yourself from it every time, but when you separate your consciousness into its own entity, by the time you're able to move your arms, the neck has melted away and you can extricate yourself.

This time, you're still aware enough of the titan's anatomy to feel the grappling hooks that anchor into its collarbones, but it feels like the foggy remnant sensation after waking from a dream.  Your ears are still sensitive enough to register the hiss of maneuver gear wire.

Someone lands on the titan's neck, and as hands move to separate you from evaporating titan muscle, you recognize the grip of the strong spindly fingers belongs to Levi.

You pull your arms free and bend your knees to snap the connective tissue surrounding your feet.

You sit back into his arms and note with pride that your clothes seem to have remained intact.

Your consciousness starts to go fuzzy, and you're glad he's so adept with the maneuver gear, because you don't have the strength or coordination to help him as he carries you back to the ground.

It's as if your brain is the flame of a candle, and a strong wind is attempting to blow it out.  You hang on as best you can, but your consciousness only flares bright in sparing points.

You catch Reiner saying something that contains your name, his voice holding a flirtatious tone, and Levi responding with an unduly harsh snap.

You catch Mikasa's hands on your chest and Armin's voice soft over your shoulder.

You catch Hanji's elated squealing.

Mostly, you catch the smell of Levi's tea.

You don't catch the part where someone puts you on horseback and takes you to the castle.

You catch a small bit of going through the entry and up a staircase, but the last thing you catch before the wind extinguishes the flame is a red comforter and a canopy bed frame with no curtains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to [Lee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/applepi) for helping me with the titan scene! Sucks the formatting wouldn't work the way we wanted -_-


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [This trope](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/BathtubBonding) is actually my exact weakness.
> 
> hhhhhhhhhh so yeah nsfw ahoy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't comment about chapter 56, because I've been gloating about it on tumblr all day.
> 
> I'm getting a lot of comments both here and on [tumblr](http://leviebooks.tumblr.com) about the "titan vision," and I'm really glad so many people picked up on it! I feel like I should clear something up, though — that's not normal titan vision, it's _**specifically the Rogue Titan's vision.**_ There's a reason he focuses on titans, but it's a manga-only spoiler, so I won't say anything more about that.
> 
> I imagine normal titan vision would be similar, but in reverse, where _everything_ is a blurry unimportant grey and humans are the only vibrant things. Also, the bit about how the air "moves" around them is something like smell-o-vision. They can literally see human body odors and pheromones. That's how titans can pick humans out of confined, enclosed areas where we should be invisible. This would also explain why normal titans also attack titan shifters; they'd emit the same vibrance and visible aroma.

Your consciousness returns just as slowly as it had petered out.  A deep rumbling sound guides your senses out of the fog and eases your mind awake to the faded light of Levi's quarters.  The window on your side of the bed points east, and by the time you wake, the sky outside has gone green with sunset.  You blink yourself into cognizance, your senses steadily sharpening, and notice several things in quick succession.

The first is that you aren't under the covers, but lying on top of them, and you aren't using a pillow.  In fact, there don't seem to be any pillows.  You aren't sure how this happened.

The second is that if it's already twilight, you've missed lunch, and are probably about to miss dinner.  The realization pinches your stomach with hunger.

The third is that the rumbling sound is water running into a bathtub.

You'd almost forgotten he had a tub, since you've never seen it used.  But as you rub sleep out of your eyes, you remember something else — wouldn't the water be cold right now?

You sit, prepared to ask him whether he's gone nuts in his desperation for cleanliness and if there's any food, but you find the room is empty and unlit.  The washroom door is closed, muffling the sound of the bathwater.  A faint warm glow of candlelight emanates from the crack beneath it.

You're up and halfway across the room toward it when it occurs to you that you're not sure what the door being closed is supposed to mean.  It's just the two of you in here and you've already done… well… _things_ , you resort to calling it in your mind as heat rises to your face.  You can't imagine why he'd be opposed to leaving doors open.  After all, he walked into the washroom and undressed without closing the door last night, and he's showered with you twice — you can't even remember if either of you bothered closing the door this morning — so you can't help but think that the closed door now means he'd be opposed to you barging in.

An uncomfortable gurgle squeezes out of your stomach.  You can feel the beginnings of a hypoglycemic headache coming on.

Maybe you should go downstairs and see if there's anything to eat while Levi is in the bath.

You tug your boots on and step out of his quarters, closing the door quietly behind you, and plod down the stone staircase all the way to the main floor.

The mess hall doors are open and the smell of sizzling pork greets you as you enter, following the scent into the kitchen.  Nanaba's squad seems to be in charge of dinner, and at the sound of the door swinging shut behind you, Christa abandons her post washing dishes to scurry up to you with a cold washcloth in hand.

"You look terrible," she squeaks before you can obtain verbal confirmation that she's part of this squad.  From what you can see, she's the only one in the room from the 104th, and the idea of sweet little Christa cut off from your classmates bothers you more than you'd care to admit.  You're sure she can handle herself — she did make it to the top ten, you recall — but you still feel she shouldn't even be here in the first place, and you've gotten the impression she might not react well when left on her own.  Despite her maternal, self-possessed demeanor as she brushes your hair aside and carefully mops your face with the cloth, despite the strength in her eyes and the steadiness of her fingers, something about her still comes off undeniably frail.

You don't want to ask if she'll be okay by herself, as such a question would reveal a great lack of confidence in her and would put her on the spot, so you try to phrase it a bit differently.  "So your squad's making dinner, huh?"

She nods, gently blotting your forehead.  You notice she's gone up on tiptoe.  "We decided to use some of the salted pork for a stew.  I managed to collect some plants around the edge of the woods that should give it a nice flavor… amazing, how many things people don't realize are edible."

You give her as warm a smile as you can manage through your disappointment in her vague and winding answer.  "Sasha should appreciate that."

"I hope so!"  She giggles and taps the cloth on the tip of your nose, sinking to rest on her feet properly again.  "It's just about done, if you'd like to take some and go.  You look like you could use more rest."

"I could use some _food_ , actually.  I missed lunch."

"You and Captain Levi both," she says, hopping back to her wash station to finish rinsing the last few things and stack them in the drying rack.  You lean on the counter beside her as she works.  "Mikasa was so worried when you didn't show up, and then he never came either… I thought she was going to hunt him down and cut his head off."  You're always shocked to hear Christa use such blunt language, and you're not sure why.  Her voice drops to a whisper, as if afraid your sister will materialize out of the wall and slap her into next week.  "She's convinced he's trying to kill you, you know."

This was probably the last thing you wanted to hear today, and you let out a sigh that you're sure betrays a fair amount of frustration.  "I don't know why."

"Probably because he tried to take your face off at the tribu—"

"For _show,_ " you snap, and it comes out sharper than you'd intended.  She winces and glues her eyes to her work.  Your stomach drops with guilt.  "I get how it must've looked to anyone who wasn't in on it, but it wasn't like that, okay?  He had to make a point, and I was fine with it.  I _am_ fine with it.  Her overprotectiveness is not my problem."

She still doesn't look at you, her shoulders seeming to collapse further with every second.  "I'm sorry, I'm just… explaining what I think she feels…"

"I know," you assure her, trying to level and soften your voice.  "Just… don't listen to her.  He's the best thing for me here."  She heaves a cutting board into the drying rack, and you hand her the last utensil to rinse.  She takes it without touching your fingers.  "He's the only one who encourages me and takes my ambitions seriously.  She doesn't.  She just goes where I go because she's sure I'm going to get myself killed without her.  And support from my childhood hero is the last thing she wants.  That's why she thinks he's trying to kill me."

"Oh," she says, her tone quiet but comprehending.  "That makes a lot of sense."

You were kind of talking out of your ass and drawing conclusions aloud, but your confidence in your ability to accurately assess a situation hasn't failed you yet.  "Yeah.  So just… don't take her grudge too seriously, okay?"

She makes a sound of agreement, meeting your eyes at last as she drops the knife into the drying rack, and smiles brightly.  "Want a bowl of stew?"

You nod.  "Actually, could I have two?  I'd like to take some to Levi."  She gives you a strange look, and you tack on, "You said he didn't eat."  The set of her mouth looks like she's about to say something, but she simply nods, and you follow her as she moves, taking bowls from the upper shelf when she can't reach.  She ladles them out for you and sends you on your way without comment.

You hear the footsteps of another squad approaching, and you duck onto the staircase for the officers' quarters floor before they can round the corner and spot you.  The thought of Mikasa being among them makes your stomach flip; you really don't want to run into her so soon.

Closing Levi's door behind you was a dumbass idea, and you have to balance a bowl on your arm to open the doorknob.  The bathwater has stopped, but the washroom door is still closed.  You suppose he must still be in there.  His room is even darker than before now, no one having lit the candles, and your primary source of light is the glow from the crack under the door.  Carefully so as not to bump into anything and spill the stew, you move to his desk and place the bowls on the blotter, then begin to search his drawer for a way to light the candles.  The first thing you find is his vial of denatured alcohol, some of which you dab onto your hands out of respect, and you blindly feel your way through the contents of the drawer before you find a box of matches.

You suppose this answers your question as to whether or not someone else lights everything in here.

The room is much more navigable when all the candles are ablaze, and you realize all the pillows have been placed on the floor at the foot of the bed.  You cannot imagine why or how this would be.

Grabbing up the bowls and balancing them carefully in your arms, you steel your breath and knock on the washroom door.

Levi's voice echoes from within.  "Yeah."

You can't decipher his tone from this word alone, and you're not sure if he's inviting you in or if he's telling you to go away or if he genuinely just wants to know what you have to say.  You think you are beginning to think too hard about this.  "I got dinner."

"Oh," he murmurs, and the way he draws it out makes you sure that his tone is relaxed and casual, and that he'd be fine with having your company.  You open the door and enter without asking.

You're aware upon entering that it's muggier in here than normal, but you don't think about it too hard, because you're too focused on making sure you don't immediately spill the dinner you've announced.  For this reason, you're watching the contents of the bowls as you move in and push the door shut behind you with your foot, so it isn't until you start to move up and look toward the bathtub that you see him.  You stop in your tracks so abruptly that you nearly do spill.

He's taken your advice of setting up the portable fire, but rather than using it to heat the water, he's arranged it to heat the pipe itself as he filled the tub, and the water level is up to his nipples and steaming, making his skin flush pink where it's submerged.  His arms are draped over the edge of the porcelain and his head is lolled back, exposing his throat and baring the hickey of a couple nights ago.  You'd forgotten how large the tub is, and you can see everything, down to how his legs are crossed at the ankle and he idly flexes his toes through the water.

Moving sluggishly, he lifts his head and blinks at you, and waves you over with a lazy hand.  "C'mere."

Your feet move mechanically.  You can't stop staring at his stomach as you approach, and you aren't sure how you don't spill your dinner.

The bathwater sloshes as he sits better, and he takes one bowl from you and sniffs at the contents, at which point you abruptly remember you've forgotten spoons.  He doesn't seem fazed, slurping at the broth and giving an appreciative sigh.  His hair is damp and slicked back from his face, and you're aware that you probably haven't blinked in about two minutes straight, but _damn_ , you don't want to miss a second of what you're seeing.

"You gonna eat, or you gonna stare at my dick all night?"

His direct accusation startles you, and you let out an "uh" noise and even take a step back.  He laughs at you, low and contented, and drinks more of his stew as you fumble for a response.

When he's chewed and swallowed his mouthful and you still haven't found one, he says, "If you're not gonna eat, then right about now, I'd be stripping if I were you."

You're not sure why he has to keep ordering you to undress around him; everything in you is screaming to be as naked as possible every moment you spend in his vicinity, and you blame your continual state of overdress on the fact that your brain keeps stalling out like a punctured gas canister.  You set your bowl on the sink and practically tear your clothes off, and you have a foot in the air moving toward the bath before he makes a noise that sounds like a goose about to get beheaded.  You freeze, and his sound of alarm forms words — "Shower!  Shower!  Water, in shower, go— go wash off, you're disgusting!"

Foot still hovering in air, you look toward the shower and notice a pail inside the stall.

Oh.

Well, that explains why the bath water is so clear.  You'd assumed he's just so opposed to grime it simply can't stick to him, like attempting to force two like ends of a magnet together.

You step into the shower and, as you wet yourself down with a cloth, hope you can remember which soap is used for what if reading the labels turns out to be an utter disaster.

It takes you some warming up and an embarrassing amount of sounding things out, but you manage well enough — he corrects you sometimes — and you rinse yourself off by pouring water straight out of the pail.  It swirls beige around the drain, and you can't help but make a face.  If someone that dirty had hopped into a bath with you, you would've freaked out too.  You hadn't realized how much sweat and muck you retained from your transformations, and suddenly it is clear to you why you were on top of the comforter and why the pillows had been removed from range of your greasy head.

You turn to leave the shower and catch Levi's eye whipping away from you to analyze the contents of his bowl as he drinks deeply.

Has he been watching you?

You're not sure how you feel about this, but you know it's not a bad feeling.

You try not to let on that you've caught him as you pass the bathtub, moving back to the sink to retrieve your dinner.  It's been sitting long enough that it's not quite steaming anymore, which is fine by your standards, because you've learned the hard way if it's hot enough for Levi to drink it's generally too hot for you.  Christa is right, the herbs she's collected are really tasty, and you can't help but think you've had them before, when you were small.  They were probably things your parents used to harvest.

As you swallow the last mouthful, your stomach twists at the image of cheerfully eating at the family dinner table.

You push the memory out of your mind.

Levi offers you his empty bowl to store with yours in the sink, and you slide into the bathtub.  The water is on the edge of uncomfortably warm, but you're not about to comment, because Levi ushers you toward him.  The tub seems so much larger now that you're actually in it, almost like a small pool, and you feel like you might be able to dog-paddle over to him if you lift your joints high enough.  You resist the urge, and slide across the tub like a normal person.  He enfolds you in his arms and you wind your own around him, struggling to find purchase against his body in the strangely weightless environment of being submerged.  It makes for a slippery smoothness in his skin, and as you settle into his side and nestle your forehead into his cheek, your hands begin to wander over his stomach.

For a while, you lie there with him, pressed into his skin and relishing the mild scent of his tea soap as you adjust to the water temperature.  He lets out the occasional sigh, and his hand moves to stroke a gentle line up and down the curve of your side.  The water ripples as his arm breaks the surface occasionally.  Your fingers play with the curled hair around his navel, feeling even softer in the water than it does in the air, and his skin jumps as you brush over a ticklish spot.

He says, "I heard you stuck up for me earlier."

After a moment's confused puzzling, you guess he's referring to what you said to Mikasa after breakfast.  You're not sure who could have told him or when, and you can't really remember the exact words you said, but you recall thinking he wouldn't be upset if he caught wind of it.  "Yeah, I'm… kinda sick of how she's so focused on the tribunal shit.  Like move on already, damn."

He tickles behind your ear, and you pinch his hand with your shoulder before you can stop yourself.  "Don't worry about her.  She'll come around eventually."

The words themselves are typical enough, blind and generalized reassurance, but it's something about the tonality that catches your attention, as if he knows something you don't.  You raise your face to look at him, and he's watching your hand on his stomach with an expression you can't quite fathom.  "What makes you say that?"

He's definitely giving the I-know-something-you-don't-know smile now, but he shakes his head.  "Nothing.  Just a feeling."

His dishonesty makes you want to wring the truth out of him, but you don't.  You trust his judgment, and if he thinks it's important for you to know, he'll tell you.  It's probably not a big deal anyway.

You kind of want to get back at him for it anyway, though, and the softness of his skin in the water is giving you ideas.

Before you can think about it too hard, and before he can catch on and stop you, your hand slides down the bead of hair to take his dick into your palm.  He lets out a startled noise and his leg jerks up reflexively, but you hold fast to his waist, your fingers gently kneading into the excess skin of his penis.  You still have no idea why he's got so much of it, but that is a question for another time, because right now you're caught up in the texture of how different he feels when he's small than he did last night, over the sink.

The memory spurs you on, makes you slide your hand and pull his skin with it.

"Eren—" he starts in protest, but you bury your face in his neck and bite down gently, and his body stiffens for an entirely different reason, his objection dying in his throat.  His dick swells in your hand as you stroke him, and his fingers dig into your skin where he's holding you, a moan escaping from his mouth as you suck a second hickey into his neck.  When you draw back to examine your work, he grasps you by the hair and pulls you in to kiss him, his mouth slippery against yours from the water you've collected off his skin.  He's more enthusiastic than he was last night, continually breaking from your kiss to let out throaty noises, even jerking his hips up into your hand sporadically.

He says your name again, and there's nothing protesting about it this time.

You giggle at him.  "You seem to be enjoying yourself."

His eyes are closed, and he fumbles blindly for your mouth.  "Water… makes it more…"  He whimpers, and you can surmise he means he's a lot more sensitive when he's wet, for some reason.  You kiss him deeply, letting him taste the underside of your tongue.

You suddenly recall thinking a matter of days ago that you should give up any sights on him because he would never feel anything of this sort for you.

If you could send your past self a letter detailing this exact moment, you would pay real gold to see the look on your face.

He pulls back from the kiss and scrabbles at your forearm as you stroke him.  "Stop, wait."  You obey, going still, and he catches his breath enough to pant, "Not in the bath."

His face is beautiful when flushed with arousal, and he seems to have been turned on much harder than he was last night.  Despite his protests against dirtying the water, you really don't want to stop at this teasing.  You lean into his ear to whisper, "Remember that thing I wanted to do for you this morning?"

He opens his eyes to stare at you, pupils blown wide within a ring of grey.  "Yeah."

"I still want to."

He glances down your arm and opens his mouth, possibly to ask if you're sure judging by his face, and you rub a thumb over the edge of the head, making him gasp and dig nails into your shoulder.  He pushes your hand off him and holds it away, having wisely learned to not trust you to use discretion about touching him, and struggles to control his breathing.

You don't want him to control his breathing.

You plant your mouth on his neck again and tickle your tongue over his skin enough that he lets out a cry and pushes you off, gasping, "Bed.  Bed."

You think this is the best idea he's had all day.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You peel away from him and let him scramble out of the tub and into a towel, and you follow, both of you barely managing to keep your hands to yourselves long enough to get dry.

He ushers you out of the room with his hands on your ass, neither of you bothering to pull the plug or put out the candles or pick up your clothes.  You're not exactly sure how this is going to play out and you're about to ask what he wants you to do, but he darts ahead of you and whips the cover off the bed before you can open your mouth, casting it aside without watching how it lands.  He crawls backward over the sheets, dragging you with him by the arm, and hooks a hand on the back of your neck to pull you in for a feverish kiss.  He doesn't bother moving all the way up the bed, settling onto his back as soon as you have enough space.  You're both leaving damp spots on the sheets from the haphazard job you did drying off, but you don't care, and you don't think he does either.  He breaks from the kiss and pushes your head down to his collarbone with a grunt.

The grunt grows into a groan as you draw a mark out of his chest, his fingers trembling in your hair, his stomach rolling up into your body with his labored breathing.  Your hands rake down his sides, and your nails dig tracks into his skin, pulling a groan out of him.  His erection brushes your stomach, making him gasp.

You want to revel in the sculpted ripples of his muscles, but you're too focused and he's too eager for you to tease him any longer.

Your hand wraps around his length, pumping it slowly as you shuffle down the bed and settle between his legs, and he sighs as if all the tension in the world has dissipated at once.  Your mouth trails down the center line of his body, and his skin jumps when your breath tickles him.  His hands clench in your hair a little too hard for comfort, but you tune it out, leaving one final kiss on his stomach before aligning his erection with your mouth and licking the tip.

He makes a strangled sound and his knees lock under your arms, powerful thighs gripping you in place.  You couldn't move if you wanted to.

Fortunately, you don't want to.  If you stop and try to analyze your actions, you'll think too hard about whether you're pleasing him and what in the world you're doing in the first place and you'll psych yourself out.  So, even though you have absolutely no idea what you're doing, you forge ahead, carefully guiding his dick into your mouth.  You follow his reactions, using your tongue to trace around the tip again when it makes him whine, wrapping your lips around it and sucking when it makes his legs seize, gently tickling his inner thigh when it makes him whimper.  He removes his hands from your hair and you look up to see him press his palms into his eyes.  The sight is enough to give you pause.  Never in your wildest dreams would you have imagined you'd get to see Levi like this, breathless and panting and utterly undone.

Your dawdling causes him to peek at you, and when you meet his eyes, the flush of his face empowers you with a delirious boldness, and you open your mouth so he can see your tongue as you lick the head of his erection.  His lips part but no sound comes out, and you press for a reaction, angling his dick so you can push it between your lips without breaking eye contact.  He moans, but his head tilts back and his eyes squeeze shut, and no, that won't do at all.  You want him to watch you.

You pull him out of your mouth, swallowing your mouthful of mixed salt and bitter, staying close enough that your breath ghosts over his skin.  "Levi."

His gaze snaps down to you, and you hold it without blinking as you slowly lick up his shaft.  He bites his lower lip to stop it trembling, but doesn't look away.  You want to take more of him, but the angle would make you have to break eye contact to do it, and for a split second, you're not sure if you want to risk him covering his face again.  The desire outweighs the risk, though, and you hold his gaze as long as you can as you push your mouth down over him.

It's uncomfortable — you're not sure why you'd thought it wouldn't be — and you can get more than half in but not the whole thing before it hits the back of your throat.  Your tongue moves around him, pulling needy groans out of his chest, and you can tell from the angle of his stomach that he's still holding his head up and watching.  You swallow around him as best you can, and he gasps as, on reflex, his hips jerk up a bit.  It's not enough to hurt you, but it's enough to catch you off guard, and you slowly ease your way off him, regaining eye contact as soon as you're able.

You have to swallow a few times to ease the itchiness in the back of your throat, so you focus on the head for a moment until the discomfort fades.  His hand carding through your hair gives you the encouragement you need to try again, and you're a bit less generous this time, having found your limit.  You take half of him into your mouth and suck off as much saliva as you can on your way up, creating pressure on his skin, making his knees clench around you in pulses as you go down again and again.  You're not sure anymore if he's still watching, and you mostly don't care; your own dick is painfully hard, and his legs have trapped your arms away from your body so you can't touch yourself, and it is the singular most torturous thing you have ever experienced.

You want him.

You want all of him, and you want it now.

You pop him out of your mouth and crawl back up over him, struggling against the vice grip of his legs, and you plant your mouth on his throat.  He lets out a noise somewhere between frustration and arousal, rubbing his dick against your hip as you suck another hickey onto him.

You don't know what you'd hoped to start when you jumped him in the bath, but you don't want it to end with a blow job and a sloppy make-out.  You want him to make you see the stars you saw last night when he found that spot inside you, and you want to make him see stars too, not just with your mouth and hands, but with your body, with everything you can use.

You drag your teeth over his neck and whisper behind his ear.

_"Fuck me."_

His chest tightens in a way you've come to recognize as insecurity, and you pull back to look at his face.  His features are pinched with the same hesitation as he searches you for any sign of discomfort.  Even though you've already given so much, he's still so afraid of taking advantage of you.

You grab his wrist and move his hand down to your ass.

This seems a sufficient argument, because his reluctance melts away, and he pushes at you to indicate you should roll onto your back.

You comply, and he moves to open the nightstand drawer and retrieve the little jar from last night and something else, something that crinkles when his hand folds around it.  He sits on his feet in front of you, spreading your legs to arrange your knees on either side of his hips, and opens the jar.

With one finger slicked and moving toward your ass, he freezes, staring at you with a decidedly unlustful expression.

"You did shit today, right?"

That is _so_ not where your mind is right now, and in a panic, you try to think back and remember if voiding your bowels was something that took place.  You're pretty sure it did, somewhere between getting dressed and leaving the room for breakfast, and you blurt, "Yeah."

He mutters an "okay good" and presses his finger against you.

He moves slowly, stroking your dick with steady, certain movements to keep you aroused through the initial adjustment.  It feels no less strange than last night, but you tough it out, knowing that when he finds the spot, it'll be so very worth it.

It takes two fingers for him to find it, but by the time he's stretched you out enough for two, it doesn't feel so strange anymore.  Somehow, it feels that much better without having to combat the discomfort, and when he finds the spot, you _scream_ , your body curling and nails tearing at his arms uncontrollably.  His body shifts and his mouth is suddenly on yours, fingers trailing through your hair and down your chest as he works you open.  His tongue twists around yours so many times you swear your head is turning and you're shocked they don't knot together.

It doesn't occur to you until he pulls away that he probably only kissed you to silence you.

This might have come as a disappointment in any other circumstance, but as it stands, it's just kind of hilarious.

He leans back to examine his fingers inside you, and after a pause during which his hesitant expression does not change, his eyes flit up to yours.

"You okay?"

Always so afraid of hurting you.  Does he not realize that if you get hurt, you'll heal instantly?  You guess that's not really the point, though, and you nod, reaching for his free hand to lace your fingers through his.  You smile at him silently until his worry fades, and he hangs his head with a short sigh of relief.

"Okay."

He withdraws his fingers and, after glancing around for a moment, wipes them on the top sheet.  You giggle at the uncomfortable face he pulls.

"Guess we're sacrificing the sheet, huh?"

He gives you a wry expression and nods.  "Yeah… yeah, I knew it was toast.  Hopefully Hanji can get the stains out."

You can't help the amusement that creeps into your voice.  "You're making Hanji wash it?"

"Obviously," he snorts, reaching for the crinkly thing he'd dropped on the bed beside you earlier.  His nimble fingers tear at it, and you realize it's a foil packet.  "Payback's a bitch."

"Payback for what?"

"Being such a busybody," he says absently, opening the packet to reveal something white and translucent and vaguely rubbery.  This time, you recognize what it is, even though you've never seen one in use — your father had drilled this knowledge into your head from the time you realized the thing in your pants existed, not wanting you to cause any troublesome accidents.

Levi rolls the condom on, and something in your stomach flips and starts to tremble.  There's a sudden heaviness in your limbs that you can't explain, and a heat blooming in your chest that sets a fire beneath your skin but contrarily leaves you cold and clammy.  As he stretches the condom flush with the base of his dick, you notice his hands are shaking.

Moving unsteadily, you sit up.  He watches you with uncertainty as you reach for his face and cup his jaw in your palms, as if he's expecting you to say something.

You don't say anything.

You guide his face to yours and you kiss him, chaste and gentle.

He lets you kiss him until he starts to kiss back, and with a hand on the back of your neck, he lays you down and gives you one more, quick and soft, before moving to your collarbone.  His teeth tickle you, making you gasp and shiver, and you're aware of his arms moving, doing something with the jar, casting it aside, moving between his legs.  He wipes his fingers on the sheets again, and then he grips the back of your thigh and lifts your leg.

His hand is clutching your thigh and his face is hidden in your chest when he guides himself into you.

It feels strange, so much stranger than his fingers, thick and oppressive and filling.  But your opening has been made so sensitive by his fingers that the slide of his dick into your body is almost too much for you to bear.  You want to squirm in his grasp but you can't move for your shaking; all you can do is cling to his shoulders as he squeezes a choked whine out of you.

His hips meet your ass, and he lets out a tremulous sigh into your throat.

He waits a moment, allowing you to adjust, before he tells you he's moving.

Carefully, he sits upright, and he holds you in place by the hips.  His hair is disheveled and his eyes pore over your face, watching your reactions as he draws back and pushes into you.  He moves slowly at first, tenderly, letting your expression flicker through shock and discomfort and ecstasy as you acclimate to the sensation.  Noises escape from you, high and breathless, and the only thing that stops you from running your mouth is noticing that his face is doing the same thing as yours — moving fluidly from stupor into passion and through it all, unmistakably, awe.

Something in your form relaxes, and he begins to quicken his pace bit by bit.

Your head is swimming with incredulity — so this is what sex feels like? it's hard to kiss him like this and you're not sure if you prefer it to his fingers — you're actually _having sex with Levi_ , holy _shit_ — what if Mikasa finds out — and you don't notice as he drags your hips up a little that it creates a minute change in angle until it makes him bump that magic button inside you.

Your hands fly to his arms and your body spasms and you aren't sure if you make any noise at all, but whatever you do is enough to make Levi stop dead and grip your hands and demand to know if you're alright.

The words are out of your mouth before you know they're there.

_"Keep moving."_

He hesitates before realizing your reaction is positive, not pained, and it takes him a few strokes to find it again.  When he does, it rips a shout from you and your vision spins and your legs lock around his waist, and you cannot control your body or voice anymore.

You're not sure when he speeds up or when his thrusts grow harder.  There's a rhythmic knocking and a continuous creaking, his voice panting and groaning, punctuated by the occasional bite of his nails into your hips, but you are too focused on the bright points of sensation every time he manages to hit that spot.  It feels like stoking a fire, each time it's prodded sending flames shooting up your gut and into your dick.

You're going to climax soon, and you want him to do it with you.

You try to put this into words, but you have no idea how much of it actually comes out amid your cries, too stimulated to maintain a steady thought let alone keep track of how much makes it out of your mouth.

He seems to get the idea, because he squeezes your hip for a beat.  "Getting close too."

You get it now.  Why people always seem so fixated on it, why some of your dorm mates were always talking about it, why your parents and adult neighbors were constantly worried about it — if _this_ is what sex is like, then no wonder.

And you're doing it with Levi.

You focus your vision on his face, flushed pink and with eyebrows furrowed as he snaps his hips into yours, and you cannot believe or put into words how fucking much you love him.

You say his name, and it comes out as a moan.  He meets your eyes, and whether by accident or not, he pushes into you just a bit harder, enough force that when he hits the spot, it sends your body shooting into euphoria.  Your hands scrabble for him, finding purchase on his wrists, and the tension he's built up in you with each thrust springs free, making your whole pelvis numb.  You're aware of a warm wetness spilling over your stomach, but you can't focus on it because he's still going, still rubbing over that spot, and the euphoria rolls over you in waves.

Just as you begin to tip over the edge into too much, he stops, pushed deep and twitching.  His body shudders and he lets out a shivering groan, hips rocking slightly.  He tips forward, and you brace him by the upper arms until he catches his breath and steadies himself.

He's already gone half soft when he pulls out, the condom wrinkled and full of cum and extremely unattractive.

You move to sit, but he presses a hand to your chest.  He doesn't quite have his breath back yet because he just says "Clean," but you surmise what he means, and let him shakily move to the edge of the bed and get to his feet.

He kisses you as he mops your stomach, and for once, you don't even mind the smell of the vinegar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aww and it only took us 100k words, 3 one-shots, and 25 chapters to get here 8)
> 
> I want to assure you guys that **this is not the end** — _Eren Can't Read_ still has a little ways to go, and even when it ends, Sentiment will still continue.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,_  
>  _Asleep on the black trunk,_  
>  _Blowing like a leaf in green shadow._  
>  _Down the ravine behind the empty house,_  
>  _The cowbells follow one another_  
>  _Into the distances of the afternoon._  
>  _I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on._  
>  _A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home._  
>  _I have wasted my life._  
>   
>  —James Wright

Once you can stand, you clean yourself properly and help him strip the bed.  He also has you pull the cases off the comforter and pillows, and he dumps everything in the bathroom hamper without bothering to fold it.  He produces clean cases and sheets from within the wardrobe, and you help him dress the bed, thankful that your bed-making skills are still sharp from training camp.  Neither of you bothers speaking more than the occasional mumble of complaint about how wobbly your legs are and a furtive giggle in response.  
  
Despite the comfortable silence, he seems a bit tense and awkward as he moves, tucking corners and folding hems.  You wonder if it's from the exertion or from post-coital nerves, but you're hesitant to ask, afraid of calling him out and embarrassing the both of you.  He doesn't meet your eyes, too attended with the pillowcases.  You're buttoning the cover onto the duvet when he sighs, releasing the tension from his shoulders, and returns to the bathroom.  You can hear the shuffling of fabric, and you guess he's folding the dirty sheets after all.  
  
He's far more relaxed, almost sluggish, as he moves back into your arms and under the covers.  You pause for a moment as he settles in, staring at the serpentine shapes of his limbs writhing into place around yours, and wonder what it must be like to be physically and totally incapable of ignoring compulsions like that.  
  
You'd probably be pathologically offended by clutter and disorder if you'd been born in the sewers and raised by wolves, too.  
  
He reaches past you to dowse the last candle with his fingertips, and you hold him tight, toying with the ends of his hair until his breathing against your collar is slow and even.  
  
He's never fallen asleep before you, and never woken up after you — until this moment, you realize, you weren't completely sure he _could_ sleep.  You'd love to see what his face looks like in the unguarded depths of slumber, but the room is too dark, his grip around your waist too tight.  You're sure though, you tell yourself as your heart swells warm and cloying under his arms, that you'll have plenty more chances, as long as you both manage to stay alive.  
  
You comb your fingers through his still-damp hair and drift away into your own sleep wondering how you're going to get away with keeping this secret indefinitely.  
  
It's not easy.  
  
Despite Levi's assurances that Hanji would run interference for you, she seems intent on interrogating you without care for her audience at every turn.  You're perturbed to discover your instinct upon being cornered is to turn to Levi, having thought yourself less cowardly than to hide behind either a hero or lover, let alone someone who is both, and you develop a habit of clenching your fists at your sides to avoid reaching for the comfort of his fingers.  He's able to keep it under control far more readily than you are, but then, you remind yourself, he's accustomed to leaving any traces of ingenuousness at the door and putting on a fine act for the entire world.  
  
The only time his act slips, interestingly enough to you, is the slightest shift from general irritability to territorial jealousy when members of the 104th are involved.  For the most part you're sequestered away from them, your training and schedule set to a rhythm apart from the rest of the Corps, the disparity in your lifestyle a clear signal of the disparity in your importance — and you're not completely sure, but you think some of them resent that your ranks of a mere few weeks ago mean nothing now; you've been chosen, and they haven't — but when you do get to intermingle, Levi's breath down the back of your shirt is never a sensation you have the chance to miss.  No one is brave enough to joke with him after the reveal of his identity, especially because you've established a firm subordinate stance regarding him ever since, and he shuts down any attempts at tomfoolery from them under his watch with a wordless glance.  There are times your friends are so quiet around you, you could hear a pin drop.  Long gone are the flatulence and food fights.  Reiner's solitary attempt to wrestle you in jest during a fishing trip is abruptly cut off by a placid offer from Levi to take your place.  Reiner nearly pisses his pants, and no one touches you again, not even Armin.  You guess training camp is officially over.  
  
Sometimes at night, there's a fine, barely detectible tremor under his skin when he holds you.  You don't ask why.  
  
Before the month of training is halfway up, your belongings have all migrated into Levi's quarters, the cell left abandoned in its disrepair.  You have no idea where the key went.  You try to be discreet about your affair, eyes peeled and ears pricked at all times for anyone who might see him lead you into his room each night, but so far, you've encountered a whole lot of nobody.  You're not sure how responsible Hanji is after all for the level of secrecy you're able to maintain.  You're especially surprised Commander Smith hasn't given any indication he's caught on, but then, you're far from familiar and comfortable with him and can't read his tells nearly as well as you can Levi's.  You have a distinct feeling you're only just beginning to understand how skilled he is at lying.  
  
There are only a few people whose suspicions you think you've aroused.  
  
One of them, unsurprisingly, is Armin.  He's become extraordinarily adept at cowing to Levi's every breath, laying the example for others to follow and drawing all doubt away from him, carving a gap for your slip-ups to sneak past unnoticed.  He always seems to be there when you're late enough coming downstairs to run into stragglers, distracting them from noticing you're leaving the staircase from the wrong direction or from spotting Levi's hand leaving the small of your back.  
  
Another is Mike, and this shouldn't surprise you given his seemingly omniscient nose, but it leaves you feeling like fingers tickling the back of your neck regardless.  He calls each of you by the other's name at least twice a week, and his alarm fades into acceptance fast enough that you're sure it has to be the result of him realizing something is up between you, rather than just uncomfortable coincidence.  Your hypothesis is confirmed when he catches you sneaking the last of your belongings into Levi's room one night, and after a tense silence, he just rolls his eyes.  When you tell Levi, he snorts.  
  
"Must've smelled you in here for days," he says, pinning your knees to your shoulders and pushing into you torturously slow, making you squirm against his unyielding grip and squeal begging for _more, please, please God please more, Levi—_  
  
Your screaming is the real problem you've found it difficult to circumvent.  Sometimes he tries to muffle you with his hands or his mouth, sometimes he gags you with a spare cravat, sometimes he just slows down and hisses to "shhh, shh—" until you can shut the hell up.  Some part of you can tell he likes it, though, relishes being the one to make you screech yourself raw, revels in seeing your love for him undo you as easily as a child's shoelaces.  
  
His favorite thing to do, once he's certain you enjoy it, is to bind your hands so you can't touch him.  Perhaps you've made your love of his figure too obvious, and perhaps you've been suspiciously unaverse to being denied what you want until the very end — whatever the case, he's figured it out on his own, and he reacts to your whining like he does the singing in his vinyl records, with rapture and reverence.  If you say _stop_ , he stops; if you say _don't_ , he doesn't; if you say _no_ , he backs off; but until those points, you're his, and you feel utterly safe there.  
  
The only one who continues to doubt your safety — whose suspicions you're sure your actions have somehow aroused as well — is Mikasa.  
  
She watches him like a caged snake watches a rodent outside its glass, memorizing his patterns and defects and vices, waiting for a crack to slip through and a blind spot to strike from.  She does nothing to act upon it, and behaves toward him with total civility, but her hatred is concealed to no one, especially not from Levi himself.  You know it's only apparent to you, but there are times a look flits across his face in response to her antagonism that's not unlike the face Christa made when you'd snapped at her in the kitchen.  Its ghost echoes in you, too; her distrust of your hero and lover is, by extension, a distrust of you, and it boils your gut to feel such resentment for your sister.  Armin's best-laid plans are at a loss to peaceably join the rift between them, and he reasons quietly to you at dinner one night that she's just going to have to come around to him on her own terms, as much time as it takes.  
  
You wish she would hurry up and stop hating him faster.  
  
The only thing that seems to hurry up, though, is time.  
  
You're waking to a bleak autumn morning in the grey of Levi's room with twenty-four hours before the expedition before you feel you've had enough time to lie back and appreciate what you've earned, and you feel robbed for it.  The entire month has been wasted on shifting practice, formation drills, and covering your every track — a fruitless effort, as you've managed to draw some attention to yourselves anyway — rather than enjoying the time you've had.  A glance toward Levi's face reveals him to be feeling the same.  He's staring glassily at the far wall, his eyes empty and numb and angry.  
  
"So," he murmurs, long since knowing the end of your snoring means you're awake.  
  
You sigh against his chest, watching the hair between his pectorals flutter away, as if trying to escape the yawning mouth of tomorrow that waits to swallow you both.  "So."  
  
Fingers drum against your back, punctuating the silence neither of you feels a need to fill — a silence that, in return, seems to fill itself with an uncomfortable truth: that there are no blissful dog day summers anymore, there haven't been for as long as the memory of humanity stretches, and any illusion of tranquility will shatter as surely as the glass you dropped years ago onto the hard floor of a home that no longer exists.  
  
You can feel the fingers of the future slipping away from the glass of that illusion, as if time itself is drawing a breath, waiting to exhale, and you know what the silence is saying.  
  
_This is it._


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello, and welcome to another party with the 104th.
> 
> I asked for some suggestions relating to this chapter on tumblr, and I'm thankful to everyone who responded! You guys rock. Also, my friend AO3 user Lir taught me about one of these party games over new years, shoutout to them. :D

No one's spirits seem to be able to take wing today, with the notable exception of Hanji, whose spirits you're sure are never actually grounded in the first place.

Perhaps that's why, after a day full of rigid drills and stiff, humorless assurances that all gear and cavalry is prepared for the following morning, none of the officers bother giving instructions for the rest of the evening.  Christa stares after Nanaba's back as she departs the mess hall without a word, stammering for an order that doesn't come.  Mikasa and Armin simply watch the worn surface of the table as Mike and Commander Smith vacate it, motionless as the hall empties.

You look to Levi.

He's got a hand on the back of his chair, prepared to stand, when he catches your hesitation and freezes, watching you cautiously.

His voice is soft.  "You'd rather stay?"

You glance toward Armin, being silently joined at the table now by Jean, and that's all the confirmation Levi needs.  He nods tersely, his chair scraping against the floor as he rises.

"Right," he murmurs.  "Probably your last day with most of them."

A spear skewers you through the chest at his words.  You don't think he has to state it quite so bluntly — then again, if nothing else, blunt is certainly Levi's nature when he's feeling shafted as he still tends to feel where the 104th is involved — but he's absolutely right.  The 3 out of 5 statistic hasn't magically been altered simply by virtue of the fact that much of the Corps is now composed of your friends.  It's your last night with him before the expedition, too, but you're not worried about his survival, or your own.  You'll still have him after tomorrow.  But the immortality of your friends is not so decided.  For them, there are no second chances.

"I'll meet you later," you assure him, and you risk the consequences of resting a hand over his for a moment.  He stares at the gathering recruits, and as he heaves a deep sigh, his face softens.  His fingers squeeze gently around yours.

"The liquor is in the cabinet under the sink," he says, and slips his hand free, patting you on the shoulder as he passes behind you and takes his leave.  There's a stiffness between his shoulder blades that tightens your heart.  You're keenly aware of why he starts getting snippy when they're around, and you're not sure what to do about it, how to convince him it's not a competition.  Sometimes, you're not sure he'll ever be assured of how much you truly value him.

You decide that ruminating on it would be a waste of what little free time you have, and push the issue aside in favor of rummaging under the sink for a large jug of something that looks like apple juice and smells like fire.

Reiner cheers when you approach the table, but no one cheers louder than Connie at the sight of the whiskey, and Jean is lucky to pluck the jug off the table before Connie's scrabbling hands can make a grab for it.

"Hold up," he says, keeping Connie at bay with a hand, "what if we use this in the game."

"Game?" you wonder aloud, settling into a chair between Armin and Mikasa.  She watches you like she wants to say something, but remains silent.  You're not sure if you're relieved for it.

"Yeah, dickhead, a game.  Y'know, like we used to do before you became Mr Hero," Jean replies, standing to avoid Connie's reach as Sasha tries to wrestle him back into his seat.  You silently root for Connie to get a clawful of Jean's bare forearm.  "We were thinkin' about Wink Murder for old times' sake.  Except now _this_ ," he swishes the jug of whiskey, "could make it way more interesting."

"Oh yeah?" Ymir drawls, kicking her ankles over Christa's lap.  "How?"

"Well, y'know how we normally have a detective," he says.  Bertholdt shifts in his seat, and Reiner snorts into his collar at him; Bertholdt hates being detective almost as much as he hates being the murderer.  Jean continues without noticing.  "What we could do instead is, everyone's detective.  And everyone can accuse someone.  But if you're wrong, you have to do a shot.  Every time you accuse someone else and you're wrong, you have to do as many shots as you've guessed, so like if it's your third wrong guess you do three shots.  And if you're the killer and you get caught, you have to do however many shots it took to guess you, and then we start a new round."

Connie is salivating with enthusiasm for this idea.  You're not sure Levi intended for you all to drink as much as Jean is suggesting — maybe to have a quiet chat with a single drink each over the night — but if that's really all he expected you to do, he hasn't learned to know your classmates as well as you'd have hoped.  It's his fault for telling you where to find it, really.

You wonder how fast your titan metabolism can burn off alcohol.

"Yeah man why not," you say to Connie's delight, "let's do it up."

Everyone else enjoys the idea, even Mikasa, which surprises you for a moment before you remember some of her wilder more life-threatening ideas from your childhood.  It occurs to you that with all the passive-aggressive tug-of-Eren she and Levi have been engaging in for the past month, you've forgotten that she generally has a disregard for prudence and her wild streak is sometimes wider than yours.  She catches you smiling at her, and tightens your scarf around her chin, muttering, "What?"

You shake your head and bump an elbow into her arm.

Bertholdt draws the killer card first and gets caught almost immediately because he still can't wink and his attempt to do so looks like Bell's palsy.  Jean says since three people accused him simultaneously he has to do three shots.  Reiner laughs at him.

The next round sees everyone drunk and nearly everyone dead before you catch Mikasa wink at Armin, leaving you the last one standing.  You don't out her, though; by this point, you think she deserves the final victory.  She instant she kills you, she asks Jean what the precedent is for this situation, and he mumbles that he doesn't know, he guesses everyone but her should do a shot instead.

Reiner winks at you a few minutes into the next round, and you start to die before you realize he wasn't trying to kill you, just flirt with you again, and Christa huffs with indignation that you've ruined her killing streak.  You and Reiner both do a penalty shot to compensate.

Sasha draws it next, and she's too far gone to not laugh when she winks at Christa and Christa waggles her eyebrows in response.  Jean says she probably shouldn't do all the shots because literally everyone is accusing her and that's way too many, but she insists on at least one.  Mikasa leans over your shoulder and whispers, "I hope she's not as greedy about whiskey as she is about food," and you snort so hard you cough.

You spend your round as the killer strategically winking at anyone but Reiner.  He figures you out anyway, though, when you kill Jean and his death act is bored and resigned.  You insist Jean do a penalty shot instead of you because he gave you away, and you've got him by the collar dragging his smug ass across the table before Armin intervenes and forces you both to do a shot for making a scene.

Ymir and Sasha are both dead and Mikasa has been accused again, wrongly, when you hear familiar footfalls behind you and turn to see Levi hovering over your shoulder, steaming tin mug in hand.  Dizzy and heavy-headed, the room spins when you turn your head, and you reach for his arm to steady yourself.  He steps up behind you close enough that you can lean your head on him.

"How drunk are you assholes?"

"Pretty drunk," you giggle, and he makes an unimpressed face.

"Yes, incredibly enough, your voice alone gave that away."

Sasha is spit-laughing into her hands, lolled back in her chair like a puppet with its strings cut.  Connie kicks her ankles.  "Corpses don't laugh."

That makes her laugh harder.

Levi rests an elbow on your shoulder, fiddling with one of your shirt laces.  "What exactly are you doing?"

"Playin' Wink Murder," you tell him, reaching to pull on his hand.  You're not sure if you're trying to rub it or what, and he stares at you with amusement in his eyes until you give up and just hold his fingers loosely in yours.

He keeps staring at you.  "What is that."

"S'a game we used t'play in training."

He nods slowly.  "That doesn't help me at all."

Armin, who has had the least to drink so far, cuts in to explain the gameplay.  "We're using playing cards to determine the murderer," he says, pointing at the face-down cards in front of each person to demonstrate.  "There's only one black card, so whoever draws it is the killer, and everyone else has to try to catch them in the act before they get killed themselves."

Levi hums a sound of intrigue, sliding between you and Armin to perch on your lap, his arm still slung around your shoulder.  You glance sideways at Mikasa to find her pointedly staring at the middle of the table.  Levi is either oblivious or apathetic.  "So," he's saying, "you're the killer, then?"

Armin squints at him for a moment, then says, "I didn't say it was me; we're still in the middle of the round."

"But it is you, though."

Armin blinks calmly at him.  "What gives you that idea?"

"You're fond of visual aids in explanation; you would have shown me the face of your card in demonstration if you were innocent," Levi says absently, reaching for the half-empty jug and pouring some into his tea.  He offers you a sip, and at your shake of the head, he shrugs and downs half the cup in one gulp.

Connie reaches across the table and flips Armin's card before he can protest.  The three of clubs winks at all of you.

Connie squawks at him that he's a dirty little rat.  Armin just smiles serenely.  Sasha laughs so hard she cries.

"Okay," Levi cuts in, clapping his empty mug on the center of the table with a ringing clang.  "This is too easy.  New game."

There's a hum of tension buzzing around the table.  With the atmosphere Levi has put you all in for the past month, no one seems ready to believe his return to the carefree attitude he'd had at breakfast their first day.  After a minute, Christa suggests, "We could play Werewolves," as she strokes Ymir's face rather than making her sit up and stop leaning on her because she's alive again.  Levi gives her a curious look, and she starts to explain it to him until he cuts her off.

"Do you guys have anything that doesn't involve guessing who's a traitor?"

You all stare amongst each other, Bertholdt looking to the ceiling for answers and Sasha studying the tabletop very hard — you suspect it's mostly for a place to focus her foggy eyes — until Jean says, "Well… there's always Truth Or Dare."

"How old do you think I am," Levi says, and Reiner snorts into his shot glass.  He adjusts himself to sit more comfortably on your lap, and your hands drop to his hips purely for the purpose of helping him get situated, certainly not to feel the upper curve of his ass on your lap.  Definitely not for that purpose.  He leans back against your chest and sighs, "I guess I could play a few rounds."

Sasha launches up from the table with a gunshot of a cheer so sudden it makes Levi jump.  The others' nervous giggles slowly give way to actual laughter, and he says, "So do you have any rules about traitors or whatever for this game?"

"Nah," Armin says as he collects the cards and shuffles them, slipping in an extra red one to account for Levi's presence, "no traitors, just a basic formula.  No restrictions, no exceptions, but you can't dare someone to tell the truth.  We draw cards for who gets to pick first, and after your turn is done you can pick anyone but the person who picked you.  When you're picked, you choose either truth or dare, and once you're given the challenge you can opt out in exchange for taking the other option, but there's no take-backs — so if Jean dares me to do something I don't want to do, for example, I can pick truth instead, only now I can't go back to the original dare if I dislike the question more.  If you decide neither option is to your liking, you can balk, but in return, you have to remove a piece of clothing."

"Oh," Levi says, and his tone makes nearly everyone laugh, including you.  "This just got interesting."

You rub a hand over the curve of his waist and whisper, "Nothing we haven't seen from each other before, right?"

He aims a look over his shoulder at you, and in your inebriated state, you're not sure if it's a warning or a promise.  Maybe it's both.  You hope it's both.

Armin flicks each of you a card with practiced deftness.  When they've all been dealt, you flip them face-up.  Connie has the three of clubs.

You expect him to pick Sasha, like always, but his appointing finger swivels around the table and lands on Jean.  "You started this mess," he says, watching Jean's startled blink through his single open aiming eye, "you show us how it's done."

"Okay," Jean says, and you watch the decision flicker on his face.  He's making the "this isn't worth it" face, you can see the tightening of his mouth, and as his lips start to form "tru—" you cut in, "Oh don't be a fucking chicken."

He squints across at you.  Connie's dares are legendary, almost as legendary as Sasha's follow-throughs, but if Jean takes truth now, he'll lose face to you.  He sneers and changes his tack.  "Dare."

Connie strokes his chin as if finger-combing an invisible beard.  "I dare you to… pick your nose, show it to us, and then eat it."

Levi stiffens and recoils so abruptly he nearly head-butts you in the nose.

After several rounds that include Reiner pretending to be a cat and crawling around the table rubbing everyone's legs, Sasha admitting she went four weeks without bathing once, Bertholdt confessing he's terrified of ants, and Ymir licking Christa's toe because she failed to reach her own, Connie points out the whiskey has been all but forgotten and fills everyone's cup to the brim.  The sad remaining droplets slosh emptily in the jug.  Levi passes a cup over his shoulder to you, and you're too occupied trying not to spill it on him to notice that Mikasa has been picked until you hear her soft voice murmuring "Truth."

Ymir is leaning too heavily on her elbows.  "If you could make out with anyone in this room, who would it be?"

Everyone laughs and wolf whistles, with the exception of Jean, who goes pink as raw pork.  You're not sure why, but something in your gut stirs uncomfortably at the prospect of what her answer might be.  Your hands tighten on Levi's hips.

You're not sure if you're relieved when she says "Sasha, probably."

Thankfully, Sasha's and Jean's reactions are sufficiently distracting that you don't have to think about your own.  You try not to think of anything until Mikasa's gentle voice says, "Captain," and the table falls silent as abruptly as if crushed by a single blow.

Turning on your lap, Levi looks at her, eyebrows raised as though she's just informed him of something especially interesting.  "Yes?"

"Truth or dare?"

He makes a hum of contemplation, swirling the contents of his mug, and knocks it back in a single gulp.  He places the mug on the table slowly, deliberately, as if placing the final king on a house of cards, his fingernails light as autumn leaves.  The gentle stick of his tongue parting his lips is clearly audible in the resonant silence.

He looks her in the eye and says, without blinking, "Dare."

"I dare you to lick your own nose, and—" she continues, cutting through his preformed protest, "if you can't do it, lick someone else's nose."

Levi stares at her the way your mother used to stare at you whenever you asked to hang out with Hannes on the wall, and says resolutely, "I'm not licking anyone's nose."

"Then you default to truth?" Mikasa says, and Levi shrugs.

"I suppose so."

The question is out of Mikasa's mouth so fast, it fires a red flare in your mind, a flare screaming foul play, premeditation, a trap the captain had no way to avoid.

"Are you in love with Eren?"

You can only see his face in profile, but the eyebrow facing you is arched with intrigue.  He stares at her with a calculative expression you're sure the others can't read, and he murmurs, "What an interesting question."

"A question you're avoiding," she points out coolly, an equally chilly expression settling over her features.  You don't dare to look around to find the others' faces.

Levi's own is still a mask of mild fascination.  "I'm curious why you'd ask it in the first place, as the answer should be fairly obvious."

"It should," she says, helping herself to the last of the whiskey — Connie lets out a whispered groan of complaint — and settling forward in her chair, her voice serene.  "And if the answer were that simple, you should have no trouble supplying it."

"Naturally, you understand such a question is hardly prudent to ask of an officer," Levi says.  A thrill shoots up your spine at the expression leeching into his eyes — the dull blankness from the tribunal and from a few weeks ago in the meadow, the look that means he's detaching from his emotions and is preparing to do real damage for the sake of a favorable outcome.

"Naturally," Mikasa says, replacing the empty jug in the center of the table.  "But should you balk, your silence will be viewed as condemning, not prudent."

"Surely you don't expect there's a reason for me to balk, then," he says.  Your heart swells with pride and affection at the casual, level tone his voice manages to maintain.

Mikasa shrugs a single shoulder.  "You tell me," she says over her glass.  "You're the one who isn't answering."

The silence is so thick you could slice it with a blade.  You press your palms into Levi's hips, trying to assure him without words that he's allowed to lie, but if he registers your message, no part of him betrays it, his body as motionless and unresponsive as a city wall.

His voice is too quiet.  "An affair between an officer and his subordinate is an absurd suggestion."

"Isn't it, though?" Mikasa says.  "And yet, that's not an answ—"

"Absurd," Levi cuts across her, the barest spark of distant lightning in his voice now, "and, for a subordinate in such a precarious position as Eren, dangerous."

Mikasa's face slips and falls as suddenly as the glass you'd dropped on the floor all those years ago.  Her lips part, her mouth beginning to gape, eyes wavering, and Armin, bless his soul, jumps in.

"This game is too old childish for you, Captain, isn't it?  We should switch to something more mature."

"Yes," Mikasa says, too quickly, brushing her hair behind her ear too many times, watching the tabletop too intently.

Reiner's voice is offensively loud in the wake of the tense silence.  "Anybody got ink and paper?  We could play Forehead Detective!"

Mikasa volunteers to fetch some, and Levi slides into her vacant seat, grumbling complaints about your bony-ass lap.  You've been so swept up in, first, the excitement of him sitting on you, and then the panic of Mikasa's confrontation, that you hadn't realized your legs had fallen asleep.  You do not appreciate the bee stings of sensation slowly returning to them, making your flesh heavy and useless.  Upon her return with stationery, Mikasa pulls a new chair between Sasha and Connie.  She's also procured a new — and much larger, you note — jug of vodka from somewhere.  You're not sure you want to know how.

Paper is torn to equal enough pieces and passed around with sticks of graphite before you register that Armin is trying to voice an objection.  Levi doesn't, though, and asks, "Are there traitors in this game as well?"

"Nah," Reiner drawls, "this is a lot easier."

"Oh," Levi says.  "I'm sure it'll be loads of fun, then."

Armin attempts again to be heard, but Christa's voice slices neatly through it and says from Levi's other side, "The rules are easy, but gameplay can be pretty frustrating."

Levi leans backward onto your shoulder so as to examine her better.  "How's that?"

"Well," she says, smoothing her paper over the tabletop.  It absorbs impressions of the grain of rough wood.  "You write a name, and stick it to the forehead of the person on your left.  Then you spend the game guessing what name is stuck to you.  You can only ask yes or no questions, but you can guess the identity at any time.  As long as you keep getting your questions right, you can keep asking.  When you get something wrong, you stop and it's the next person's turn."

Levi nods his understanding of the mechanics.  "And I'm guessing an incorrect question would garner a penalty?"

"Yes," Christa chirps, her back snapping up straight.  "Normally we'd take off a piece of clothing and you're out when you're naked, but this time… shots, probably?"

Connie gives a whooping cheer, drowning out Jean's word of approval.

Levi crosses an ankle over a knee, resting his leg on yours under the table.  "Sounds simple enough."

"You don't have to write a person's name, though," Jean adds, already scribbling on his paper and shielding it with his hand.  "It can be a town, an object — anything, so long as it's famous enough for the person to guess."

"Nice and simple," Levi murmurs, twisting the graphite around his fingers.

Armin's complaint, at last, finds space to squeeze through.  "How are we gonna stick them to each other's heads, though?  We don't exactly have tape…"

"I have gum," Sasha suggests, pulling a wad of wax paper from her pocket.  Armin's noise of relief sounds completely false.

After assuring Levi it's not pre-chewed and no one else's body fluids have to touch his head, he relents, acquiescing under the condition that you be the one to do it.  His insistence earns him some raised eyebrows from Jean, a pointed silence from Mikasa, and a decidedly less than contented stare from Reiner that he divides between the two of you as you brush Levi's fringe aside and press a gooey lump of gum to his skin.

You catch a glimpse of the paper Armin is preparing for Bertholdt.  His letters are a bit wobbly, his hands shaking.

You nudge his arm, and he damn near jumps out of his skin.  Connie laughs at him across the table.

Leaning into his hair, you whisper, "You okay?"

You draw back to find him owl-eyed.  He crooks a finger, beckoning you in, and his trembling voice is almost inaudible in your ear.

"How are you going to play this game?"

"Hey!" Jean shouts, drawing your attention.  An accusatory finger is pointed at the pair of you.  "No cheating, Jäger!"

You ignore him, rolling your eyes, and murmur back to Armin, "I don't know what you mean?"

Jean snarls at you to stop talking, so with a rolling stomach and a quick reassurance of "tell me later," you have no choice but to turn away from Armin's watery gaze, focusing instead on your own scrap of paper.  Who in the world could you pick that Armin wouldn't guess immediately?  After tapping the graphite against your lips for a moment in thought, you settle upon a name, and you scratch out the letters for it over the bumpy surface of the table.

Levi taps you on the elbow, his voice impatient but joking.  "Are you about done?"

"Yeah," you say, angling the paper so he can see it and Armin can't.  "Hey, I've never written this out before, did I spell it right?"

Levi barely spares it a glance before nodding.  His fingers lift his own paper toward your face, and he says "No peeking" as he flattens your hair aside for it.  You close your eyes and allow him to stick his note to your head.  Almost immediately, the impulse to scratch at the foreign sensation on your face is overpowering.

You notice Levi's hand twitch toward his own face for a moment before he catches himself.  You grin at him.  "This is gonna be harder than I thought."

He gifts you with a smug little smile that pushes up one of his dimples.  "If you think I didn't make yours especially difficult just to fuck with you, you need to think again."

You hear his words, but you don't truly register them, because at that moment you notice the name Christa has stuck to his head.

It's his own.

You're sorely tempted to high five her for her ingenuity but you're not sure if that would give it away, but it doesn't matter, because the moment anyone else in the group settles down and notices, their shriek of laughter outweighs any reaction you would've given.  You allow your giggle to break through, and he gives you a look that makes you fully aware you're going to pay for it.

Once you've stuck your paper to Armin's head, his alarm has given way to blatant confusion, and you still don't want to attract Jean's ire and annoy yourself further by asking Armin what his deal is, so you pretend you don't notice.

Connie fills everyone's cups preemptively, and you draw cards for who gets to take the first guess.

Despite your attempts at cleverness, Armin discerns almost immediately that his card is Captain Hannes, and he pulls the paper from his head to stare at your words as if he's the one who only recently learned to read — and that's when it hits you like flying into a tree, the reason for his concern and fear, that he's known all along you can't read or write and was trying to run defense, not knowing you've since been taught.  You almost want to laugh at the confusion you're sure he must be suffering, not knowing how it is you're able to write let alone spell correctly, not knowing whether he was ever correct after all in his assumption that you couldn't.  You're tempted to not tell him at all, just to see if he ever approaches you about it.  Maybe Levi's secret devious nature has rubbed off on you more than you've thought.

You pluck the scrap from his fingers and scrawl a note on the back of it, offering it back to him under the table.  He stares at the words for a moment before his gaze snaps up so quickly it must put a crick in his neck, but he stares not at you, but beyond you, to the person just on your other side, glancing back at the note a few times to be sure he's reading it right and trying to reconcile the surly image before him with the words you've written.

_LEVI TAUGHT ME._

As for the captain himself, his efforts at guessing have proven as unfruitful as you'd suspected, and Christa does an impressive job at containing her mirth, her soft features painted with an unsettling pride.  Thankfully, he hasn't noticed your side conversation or Armin's repeated stares at him, too engrossed with the debate across from the table as to whether the note on Jean's forehead counts as a person or an object.

The note says _COLOSSAL TITAN_ , and Reiner is as adamant that it is a person as Bertholdt is that it isn't, though his commanding self-assurance is far more convincing than Bertholdt's mumbled protests.  Mikasa settles the debate by musing, "Well, it looks like a person," and Jean becomes convinced that it must be a statue of some kind.

By the time Jean finally figures it out, you and Levi are the only ones with your notes still unsolved, and all you've managed to discern is that it's a man, someone you don't know personally, someone already dead.

Levi has a far sharper intuition for rooting out intel and has managed to narrow his down quite a bit further — a still-living man in the Corps, renowned for his skill — but can't seem to figure out that he's talking about himself.  He's resorted to guessing another officer at every turn rather than ask more questions, and the drunker he gets, the more inclined he is to forget that it's someone still in active duty.

"Keith Shadis," he slurs, and you shake your head at him dolefully.  He lets out a swear so loud it makes even Mikasa giggle, and when he knocks back his shot, his head stays lolled over the back of his chair as though he's found something fascinating to stare at in the ceiling beams.

You suppose it's your turn again.  "So it's not someone in the army…" you tell yourself aloud, going over the negatives you've been penalized for with inebriation.  The knots in the table are starting to spin.  "What's he famous for?"

"You can only ask yes or no questions, dumbass," someone says, and you think it's Jean but you're not sure.  You toss the contents of your glass on him anyway.  His screams of outrage sound like you're hearing them through a wall, and Armin's hand on yours is too visceral, as though every mark of his palm print is perceptible to you.

"Try to phrase it differently," he suggests, and you stare at him as though he has all the answers in the world.  Armin is so smart, he's gotta know everything.  He can tell you stuff.

"Was he… did he impact me, my life, even though I never met him?"

Armin's eyes go wide with unfamiliarity.  "I have no idea."

Levi drawls a loud "yes", and you turn to face him as slowly as you can manage so the room doesn't spin on you.  His head is still drooped back, though his eyes are closed.

"Is it… someone who… affected my learning?  My knowledge?"

The captain swallows, no easy task with his throat bent at such an angle.  "Yep."

Your pulse quickens at receiving two right answers in a row, something you haven't managed to do yet.  "And he's not in the military?"

As the word "correct" leaves Levi's mouth, you mentally slap yourself; you already know it can't be Levi, since this is someone you've never met and who's already dead.

Somehow, a gear in your brain is still working hard at cognizance, and it slogs through a process of elimination.  If it's someone Levi knows to have impacted your education, but Armin doesn't, and it's someone already dead…

"Is it one of those old writers?  From that book you read to me?"

"Mhmmm," Levi says, scratching idly at his forehead before he touches the edge of the paper and remembers he shouldn't.  His hand flops to his side uselessly.  "Which one."

"Oh come on, don't make me guess."

He heaves a heavy sigh, one that outlines his pectoral muscles against his shirt for a moment, and you're so captivated in staring at his chest that you almost don't hear him say "okay, fine." You pull the paper from your forehead at last and see the name _WILHELM GRIMM_.

Armin confesses at last, "I've never heard of him," and at his admission, the rest of the table nearly erupts, all of them at once bursting into complaints that they had no idea what the hell kind of name they've been looking at for the past hour.

Levi cackles at the ceiling.  "Toldja I made it super hard for ya."

"Okay," you giggle at him, "but yours is really easy and you can't guess it, so who's really the one who… has it hard and can't guess shit," you finish lamely, tired with struggling through stringing coherent thoughts together.

With great effort, Levi sits up straight and aims a stare at you that should be irritated but just looks pained.  "Shut the fuck up."

"Levi, seriously, okay.  It's a talented dude in the Corps.  Who does that sound like to you."

He blinks slowly, too slowly, looks around the table and eventually settles his glassy dead-eyed stare on Jean, as if he's responsible for this.  He says, "Is it me," and a bubble of laughter that has been sitting heavy in the air pops at last with fists banging on the table and shrieks that you're sure can be heard all the way up in the officers' quarters.  Levi rubs a hand over his face, coming away with the gum and paper attached, and stares at his own name in numb irritation.  He mutters, "Are you fuckin' kidding me," and this time even you can't help but laugh at him, slinging an arm around his shoulders and drawing him in to lean against you.  He keeps shaking his head.  "I hate you all," he says, and Christa is giggling into her hands, her eyes still gleaming with pride.

Ymir declares herself sufficiently drunk and the games therefore over, and helps a fully plastered Sasha to her feet.  You find, with equal parts alarm and hilarity, that you have to do the same with Levi.  Connie notices and laughs so hard he coughs, and Levi goes to draw a sword on him to find he isn't wearing his gear, and it's Reiner pointing as he laughs that makes the captain snap.

"Fuck you," he declares, "and your fucking face, and your… always hitting on my boyfriend, and your.  Big fucking feet."

Reiner looks offended, Bertholdt looks terrified, Connie just looks confused, but in the midst of the others' laughter at Levi's seemingly nonsensical comment, Mikasa's eyes meet yours.

You're not sure what you find there — whether it's pity, hopelessness, shame, anger — but you know you don't like it and don't want to deal with it right now.

"Okay," you cut in, probably too loudly, "okay Captain, let's get you to bed.  Got a big day tomorrow."

"Yes," he agrees, nodding too hard, "yes.  Big day.  And I don't wanna fuckin' hear," he adds, pointing a finger at everyone that you try unsuccessfully to pull back to his side, "anything, tomorrow.  About this.  Roger?"

The others assure their vow of silence henceforth through bouts of laughter, cleaning up the empty glasses and dousing the torches as you all make your way into the hall.  No one makes fun of your arm around Levi's waist and his hand clenched on your shoulder for balance as you head to the officer's stairs, no one commenting that you're going with him or that you know exactly where to go as you walk him to bed, just giving sloppy waves and calls of goodbye and "see you in the morning" as they head in an amorphous blob toward the barracks.  And as you lead Levi up the winding stairs, neglecting to douse the torches as it would be too much work with him clinging to you and still babbling insults about Reiner, you're glad that you got to spend this night with them.  You have no idea anymore what time it is or how much sleep you're going to get, but the time spent has been well worth it.

It's been enough to make you forget the reason why tomorrow is a big day, an event mere hours away now, creeping behind you like a specter in the dark halls, and that that by this time tomorrow, more than half of the people you just left will likely be dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AT LAST, it's funny because Eren _can_ read.
> 
> Y'know what's not funny?
> 
> The next chapter.
> 
> Read on.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the final night, boys.  
> We are the cracks in diamond walls.

Getting Levi to sit still while you peel off his boots and clothes is a harder task than you would've imagined, if you'd ever thought to imagine such a thing.

In his inebriation, he is either unwilling or incapable of recognizing he is still dressed and this is a thing that probably needs to change in order for him to sleep as he's so vocally keen on doing, and he takes no issue with voicing his irritation and confusion at you for keeping him from lying down.

"Just what the fuck, why are you, what the FUCK ARE YOU DOING EREN JÄGER?  What the fuck are you doing Eren Jäger.  What the fuck are you—"

"I'm taking your dirty clothes off so you can sleep," you say for the seventh time as patiently as you can manage, "do you understand that."

You've gotten far too accustomed to nursing drunken friends during training camp, even Jean when Marco was too intoxicated to do it himself and Jean was too far gone to realize you weren't Marco, but it feels very different now, uncomfortably different.  The familiar audience of giggling teenagers is gone, as is the open atmosphere of group dorms and the nonchalance of peer equality and the detachment of none of them being your childhood hero, or lover, or boyfriend, or whatever Levi is seemingly inclined to call you while drunk.  Your fingers fumble over his shirt buttons.  You try to blame it on his wriggling around rather than on your own nerves.

"Sleep," he echoes.  "Sleep is… sleep.  It's good.  Sleep's good.  I like sleeping."

"I know," you say, unbuttoning the end of his shirt at last and sliding it down his arms.  You don't think your touch is lingering or suggestive, but he laughs at you for it anyway.

"You're making me naked," he giggles, trying to nudge you with a foot but unable because you only got his harness halfway down his legs before he insisted on sitting down.  "You're making me naked, you wanna fuck me, you wanna sleep with me."

"You already know I want to do that, Levi," you sigh, trying to pry his undershirt from his squirming body.  You attribute your ability to continue undressing him on practiced autopilot.  "Sleeping with you is actually a thing I do a lot."

"Sleeping," he parrots, nodding too hard for a person who is having a shirt pulled over his head.  You nearly rip the neckline in the effort.  "Sleep is amazing.  You sleep a lot.  You sleep like a dog," he says, his voice breaking with laughter, and suddenly he's snorting and for some reason that means he's kicking, and kicking while you're trying to remove his harness is definitely not an ideal situation.  You give up and unbutton his trousers instead.  He laughs at you worse.

"Levi," you say at last, "do you want to play a game with me?  Let's play a game.  It's called sit as still as you can until Eren says you can move."

"No," he huffs, lashing out at you with a trapped foot, "that sounds stupid.  Stupid games.  Who came up with that game.  Was it your stupid friend with the stupid face."

You assume he's talking about Reiner, as he's done nothing but hurl insults at him when he's not babbling about how tired he is.  "No, Levi.  It wasn't my friend with the stupid face."

"Good," he says.  "He's stupid.  He's, he wants to fuck you so bad."

The idea of Reiner wanting to sleep with you is as uncomfortable as it is laughable, as he so clearly would rather sleep with Bertholdt or Christa or Annie or literally anyone else, but it has nonetheless been a concept that's nagged at you since that first morning here at headquarters when he'd tried to play footsie with you under the breakfast table.  It hasn't escaped your notice either that Levi's astringent attitude toward the 104th has been targeted at Reiner specifically, and you know he's not one to jump to conclusions lightly or act without purpose, so his behavior has given continued rise to your own suspicions.  Just the same, though, the notion of Reiner wanting you is not something you would especially like to be true, and that desire alone is enough to make you keep denying it.

"No he doesn't, Levi."

"YES he does," he insists, his voice suddenly sharp, "and you don't care, you don't care that I know you're still.  You're young and you don't want a… a old man like me, you could fuck him if you wanted to."

You pause in your attempt at wrestling his pants down his legs, staring up at him.  He's glaring at you with an acidity that would burn if his gaze weren't so glassy.  "I don't want to, though."

He sucks in a deep breath, closing his eyes to you.  "That doesn't.  It makes no sense.  You like him."

You can't tell how much of this is drunken rambling that has no bearing in truth, and how much of it is his actual hidden thoughts leaking through.  "I don't.  It's you I like.  Don't you know that?"

"No," he snaps, his eyes still shut.  Part of you, the part that turns toward clinical thought when faced with bad emotions, worries that he might fall asleep sitting up.  "No, you, I'm telling you.  You don't like me.  You don't want me, you don't want anything to do with me."

Finally, you pull his pants off and the harness with it, the whole mess clattering to the floor in a tangle of buckles.  He won't meet your stare.  "I feel like I might know what I'm feeling better than you do."

"Nope," he says, flopping back onto the covers, and you let him.  He talks to the ceiling, lifting an arm pointlessly every few moments as if about to make a gesture and forgetting about it.  "No, no no no, no, no no, you like your friends and I'm just an old guy.  You like them, they like you more than you like me."

"Okay, for one," you say, standing up and starting to undress yourself at last, "not true.  I love you more than I can say."

"Yeah," he says, drawing the word out into a song that you ignore.

"And for another, no matter how much they like me, I'll still pick you every time."

"You didn't tonight," he says, and the immediacy of his answer sticks at you like thorns in your feet.  "You wanted to stay with them instead of with me."

"Levi, I'll be with you tomorrow," you point out, pulling your shirt off, but the truth of his words is a rock that rolls sickeningly in your gut, and the conviction in your voice is gone.

He doesn't respond.

In the entire time it takes you to peel off the rest of your clothing, gather it up with his in your arms, and fold it into the bathroom hamper, he doesn't respond.

You move back to the bed on tiptoe, cautious he's fallen asleep, but he hasn't, unless he sleeps with his eyes open.  He's staring unseeingly at the ceiling.

You crawl onto the bed beside him, and the moment the mattress sags with your weight, he speaks.

"What if we don't have tomorrow, though."

His words give you pause, make you go still on your knees and sink back to sit on your ankles.  "But we do.  We'll be together all day, an—"

"No," he says, and the sharpness in his voice is gone, replaced by an emptiness that feels like the void that stretches between Armin and his grandfather's hat when he stays up staring into it some nights.  "No, do you think tomorrow is a game?  We don't have tomorrow.  What if I die."

"You won't." The words are out of your mouth before you know they're there, and even once you register them, you can't deny them.  Levi is a legend, a tutelary, a god, and it would take far more than a titan to end his life on this earth.

"I might."

"You won't."

His smile is wry, but he doesn't argue.  "Okay then, what if you die."

You're about to repeat your insistence, but truth stills your tongue.  This is an eventuality you haven't mentally prepared yourself for.  You probably should, you know this, but it doesn't help the fact that your preferred tactic for unpredictable situations is to ignore them until you're forced to react on the fly.  What would you do if you were about to die?  You don't know.  You can't imagine yourself in that situation — not because it's impossible, like Levi, but simply because you don't want to, and the aversion prevents you from dwelling on it any longer than absolutely necessary, an amount which the averse part of your brain deems to be "at all."

You can turn into a titan and heal yourself, though, and you think that increases your odds a fair enough bit.

"I won't," you say.

He laughs like you're made of glass.  It makes you fidget in place.  Sober Levi can see right through you like a window, but Drunk Levi's powers of perception are a mystery yet to be solved.

You'd almost rather he just fell asleep and woke up with no memory of this.

You don't want the night to be over yet, though, because that means tomorrow is that much closer.

You settle into the covers next to him and run a hand through his hair, and he lets you.  He leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed, and for just a moment, you can pretend he's not drunk and you're not scared shitless and this is a night just like any other, with you worshipping his body and him opening up his only vulnerabilities in the safety of your arms.

The quietness of your voice doesn't take the edge off the bluntness of your words.  "Do you want to have sex?"

He takes a moment to swallow in consideration before he sighs, "No."

You nod at the wall, not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

"No," he says, "I want you to trust me."

You start to say you do trust him, absolutely, blindly, with every fiber of your life, but he cuts you off.

"This isn't about Reiner," he says, "or your friends, or titan shifting practice.  It's not about any one thing.  It's about everything, all at once."

You nod silently, not sure you're following.

"I told you once that missions never go the way you plan, and your survival depends on how fast you are to react.  How well you can avoid danger, how experienced you are at escape.  Do you remember?" You do, the cold stone of the dungeon stairs suddenly visceral on your legs, the offending spoon winking you in the face on a mess hall table.  "This isn't just talk anymore, Eren.  Your survival — our survival — depends on experience, on fast reactions, on trust.  And I need you to trust me."

Your fingers have gone numb moving through his hair.  "I thought I needed to trust my gut."

"And your gut should trust me," he says.  His speech is still slurred, but unease seems to have cleared his fogged mind a little, and you don't think any part of his words are influenced by drink anymore.  "I know he likes you.  Do you believe me?"

Your throat is uncomfortably dry.  "I don't want to."

"But do you?"

You're not sure how appropriate it would be to say that of all the things in this world you've ever witnessed, all the things you've sensed, no matter how you've tried to ignore and deny them, Levi is the only one you know without doubt to be true.  "Yes."

"One of us could die tomorrow.  We both could."

Your mind flashes back to a clearing in the woods, to Levi's elbow knocking stars into your eyes, to a boot in your face and teeth skittering across cold marble.  You can't understand why this is happening.  "I know."

"You don't," he says.  "You don't get it, you still don't trust me."

His ability to cut right through you leaves your guts in coils of ice.  You remember him standing before a chalkboard, staring you down without blinking; you remember trying to read those eyes, as you've done so many times since, and finding nothing.  Your answer is the same now as it was then.  "I do trust you."

"Not enough.  You don't understand, your head is too loud.  You need to shut it up and trust me completely, do exactly as I say, think exactly as I think.  Or we won't make it."

He's wrong, your mind isn't too loud; it's not saying anything at all, your skull filled with nothing but echoing silence.  "Okay."

He scoots up on the blankets until he can slide under them, and you mimic him, letting him back up against you and winding your arms around him on habit.

He doesn't say goodnight.

**Author's Note:**

> **_[CONTINUE... ⇒](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4089538/chapters/9211006) _ **


End file.
